Treading Water
by Mechabeira
Summary: "You can still swim, can't you? You're going to have to tow her in, DiNozzo. We aren't going to let her just tread water."
1. What the Water Gave Me

_Lay me down._

_ Let the only sound be overflow._

_ Pocket full of stones._

_ -Florence+The Machine, "What the Water Gave Me."_

Ziva stepped heel-first, making sure her boot soles didn't slide on the cinders underfoot. Airman First Class Adam Jantzen had killed Marine Private John-Tyler Zeimetz in a bar fight two days prior, and now NCIS had tracked him to the southernmost edge of Bolling Air Force Base, where Overlook Avenue did just that—it _overlooked_ the Potomac River and Oxon Creek. Gun drawn, she sidled around the southwest corner of Jantzen's neighbor's townhouse.

Gibbs' voice rumbled low in her earwig. "DiNozzo, you got eyeball?"

"Copy that," Tony whispered. "We're three houses in from the corner. Suspect headed north-northwest. David, you on?"

"I have no visual," she murmured smoothly.

"He's veering left, into the park," Tony replied.

She took off at a run, gun down.

"Lost visual," he said in her ear again.

There was a loud noise—a fantastic noise, she thought dumbly—and hot water ran over the back of her skull, down her neck, and into her boots. Her arms went limp and her piece tumbled to the grass, uncocked _thank God_. She followed it, slumping sideways first, shoulders curled into the sloping hillside. She rolled once and came to rest in the low scrub at the edge of a stand of trees. She fought back hard against the dark, but the pain was electrifying and the world slipped away from her like newspaper on an eastern wind.

Jantzen swept around the stand of trees and ran straight into DiNozzo and McGee, both with guns drawn. He surrendered immediately, dropped to his knees and laced his fingers behind his head. Tim cuffed him.

"Ziva?" Tony called into his radio. "What's your twenty?"

Silence and the crackling of satellite frequency was his only reply. "Gibbs?" He tried again. "What's the location on David?"

"No visual now. Saw her in Jantzen's footsteps before he hit that tree stand. Two minutes out."

Tony backtracked where Jantzen's standard-issue boots had flattened the tall grass. Movement sixty paces ahead made him draw his gun again.

"David, do you copy?"

More static. The person ahead was broad-shouldered and over six feet tall-definitely not Ziva. It moved at a steady pace away from him, unaware he was following. He closed the gap between them. Fifty paces. Thirty. When he could recognize the athletic logo on the back of the man's jacket, he drew his weapon.

"Federal agent," he bellowed. "Freeze."

The man stopped. A cedar branch snapped under Tony's Italian leather shoe.

"Hands in the air."

The man put both hands up, raising a length of galvanized steel pipe in his right hand.

"Drop the weapon," Tony bellowed.

The pipe tumbled to the ground. Tony kept his gun at the ready and swung a wide berth around the man. The guy was beefy; his arms were thick with muscle under a layer of sealish fat. His Baltimore Ravens anorak wouldn't button over his ample belly. He thought back to the Brando's dockwallopers.

"You're under arrest for fleeing from federal agents. Hands behind your back."

Tony cuffed him quickly and escorted him back to the Charger. Bolling police were on scene and took over for him.

Tim was taking notes on a tablet computer. Or trying to. The sun was high overhead but a frigid wind blew in off the water and his fingers were red and stiff with cold. He looked up when he heard Tony's shoes scuff on the cement.

His brow furrowed. "Where's Ziva?"

Tony could only stare back. "Thought she was with you?"

They gaped at each other for a brief, hot second. If Gibbs got wind of a left-behind team member they'd be dead. In unison they wheeled and retraced their steps down into the park between the residential street and the riverbank. They were hustling; sweat formed on their brows and napes even though the October afternoon hadn't broken forty degrees. A flash of white lettering—_NC—_caught Tony's eye. His heart sped up, hands itching.

"Ziva?"

She was crumpled at the base of a tree. Her flesh was grey and waxen; Tony had to steel himself to take her pulse. Weak and fast, it thrummed like a dying bird beneath her jaw. Her nose and right ear were trickling blood onto the grass below. She was unconscious, but her eyes were slightly open and hooded as if the sunlight was summery and intense.

"Call a bus!" He yelled, voice an octave higher than normal. "Agent down!"

He could hear Gibbs tumbling down the path towards them, all sniper instincts gone. Through the underbrush he watched McGee raise his radio to his mouth and call for an ambulance.

Ziva moaned once and gurgled a weak, wet sound. Convinced she was going to swallow her tongue, DiNozzo put a hand under her neck and prepared to roll her. Gibbs knocked his arm away.

"Don't move her," he said sharply. "We don't know what happened."

Sirens began to filter down through the shedding trees. There was a clatter and Tony jumped. Two EMTs carried a backboard down the path.

"What do we got?" The smaller one asked no one in particular.

Gibbs went robotic and Tony stepped back. "Twenty-nine-year-old female found unresponsive, no visible trauma. Pulse fast and week. She was coughing a moment ago but stopped. Check her airway."

The bigger one fastened a cervical collar around Ziva's neck. The smaller one took her blood pressure and started an IV. They worked quickly, responding to each other's body language. Tony felt his vision go fuzzy. Was he at the opera? Where was the fat lady?

Tim was on the phone, his voice a steady drone in the background.

Gibbs' low bark rattled Tony's teeth. "Where are you taking her?"

They EMTs already had Ziva on the backboard and were several steps towards the bus.

"She's NCIS, right?" The big one yelled. "Bethesda."

Gibbs cuffed his shoulder and waited to make eye contact. "Let's go," he said softly, and lead Tony back to the Charger.

. . . .

The emergency room was quieter in real life than it was on TV; there was no hum of activity behind striped curtains, no squeak of rubber-soled clogs on the sanitized floor. Tony was glad for that, because if he had to see Ziva smeared with betadine and bleeding onto the floor he might pass out. Or die. Or shoot someone. They'd followed the ambulance into the bay and were systematically waved off by the nurses. _You can't come back here. Wait out there. _So Tony, Gibbs, and McGee sat in a row of chairs against the north wall and waited for the doctor to tell them something. Leon Vance strode through the doors with a tray of coffees.

"Any word?"

Gibbs shook his head. "She wasn't visibly hurt. It might take them a while to figure this one out."

Vance looked surprised. "I was told by Base PD that it was a GSW."

Tony scowled. "They told you wrong," he snapped. Gibbs shot him a look. Tim shifted in his seat.

"I also heard you lost contact with her for nearly five minutes. Care to explain?"

Gibbs turned hard blue eyes on his younger teammates.

Tim cleared his throat. "Boss, I heard movement in the trees and thought Ziva was on Jantzen's trail. She knows how to handle herself out there. I wasn't worried."

Tony could do little besides sigh and berate himself internally. _Stupid, selfish bastard. Can't take five seconds to check your teammate. _Gibbs sensed his turmoil and elbowed him not too gently in the ribs. _That's enough_ it meant.

Vance pulled an envelope out of his inside pocket and handed it to Gibbs. "You'll need to sign these forms. It validates this was an on-duty injury. The insurance company and workman's comp will need copies of it."

Gibbs figured that he'd be worried about protocol and signatures. He snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it in his own pocket.

"We'll take care of it," he growled.

The doctor appeared then—too young, too harried—and called _family of Ziva David_, and mispronounced her last name. Tony bit down hard on his tongue.

"That's us," Gibbs said, and rose from his uncomfortable seat.

The doctor beckoned them down a short hallway to another waiting room. This one was smaller and empty except for a TV tuned to ZNN and a few slightly more comfortable chairs. There was a white box nailed to one wall. The doctor flipped a switch and it came alight. Taking out an envelope none of them noticed before, he slid a few images up for viewing.

"I'm Dr. Druckman. I was the attending physician on call when Ms. David was brought in."

Tony, Tim, and Gibbs were still standing and made their introductions quickly. Druckman motioned for them to sit. They sat.

"Ms. David—"

"_Dav-eed_," Tony corrected. "She's Israeli."

Dr. Druckman nodded and took a breath. "Ms. _David_ has sustained serious trauma to her head, neck, and back. It appears that she has suffered a contusion to her spinal cord."

Tony tilted sideways, his vision narrowed to pinpricks.

Gibbs jabbed him hard in the ribs and cuffed him gently under the chin. "Up, DiNozzo," he ordered. "You can do this now."nnTony sat up straight and shook his head.

Dr. Druckman continued. "Ms. David's spinal cord has swelled considerably between her third cervical and second thoracic vertebrae. Two of them—C7 and T1—are broken, but not badly. She also has a moderate concussion. These are all indicated on these images."

He pointed to the scans of Ziva's head and neck. Tim was the only one who could make sense of them. He squinted at them, cocking his head to the side, and looked hard at Gibbs. _This is bad_ his eyes said.

"She's paralyzed," Gibbs said. It wasn't a question.

The doctor shrugged. "We don't know. She was unconscious when she arrived and she hasn't yet come around. She's not responsive to stimuli at this point so we're taking a wait-and-see approach to all but one treatment."

"What's that?" Tony asked. He'd regained his composure when uncertainty crept into Druckman's voice.

"We're going to apply corticosteroid injections to the traumatized area. Studies have shown that if delivered within twenty-four hours of injury they can have marked improvement in recovery."

Tony went white. "You're going to stick needles full of drugs into her spinal cord?"

"She'll be sedated for the procedure and under the care of myself, an anesthesiologist, and a radiologist who is specially trained in this procedure. She'll be in no pain and closely monitored during and afterward."

Gibbs nodded. "When can we see her?"

"They're admitting her now. Once she's given a room on the neuro floor I'll come back with the info you need. I don't think it will be more than half an hour."

Tim stared hard at the scans again. "When will Ziva receive the injections?"

Dr. Druckman consulted his PDA. "Later tonight. We're working within a pretty narrow window but we need to bring in the specialist from Fairfax."

Druckman eyed them each once and left. Tony stared at the floor, not ready to meet Gibbs' or Tim's eyes.

"What have I done?" His voice was soft.

McGee wanted to offer some comfort but every phrase died on his lips. They'd turned their back. Not literally, of course, but they'd missed some vital piece of information and now Ziva was paying the price for their carelessness.

Gibbs stood and regarded them both wearily. "You can't make this better," he said flatly. "But I can't punish you as harshly as you'll punish yourselves. Now I'm going for another coffee before the doc gets back. You two had better corroborate your statements before Vance and Base PD come sniffing around."

He paused and looked at Ziva's scans, still posted on the lightboard. It was hard to believe that she—so quick, so tough, so unshakably prepared for any situation—could be reduced to such basic elements. Bone. Blood. Sinew. He carried her close to his heart because she'd sacrificed so much. He drew himself up and tugged his jacket closed over his badge and gun.

"You didn't protect her when you should have," he said quietly. "But you sure as hell had better do it now. Man up. This isn't going to be easy." He turned on his boot heel and left.

Tony's throat burned and his eyes were hot with tears. Tim wiped his face and pulled his notepad from his breast pocket.

"Ok," he said softly. "Let's get our statement together quickly. I think it's the first step in helping Ziva."

Tony swallowed reflexively. "I can't believe this," he muttered. Numbness was creeping up on him. He flexed his hands, rubbed at the back of his neck, and rolled his shoulders to stave it off.

Tim stayed the course. "Well, it happened. And now we need to deal. Do you need some time?"

He shook his head. "No. Let's get this done and go see her."

. . . .

The neurological unit at Bethesda was straight out of Spielberg's _ET_; billowing white curtains, stricken family members sitting blank-faced next to patients under labyrinths of tubes and wires. There was little sound except for the clicks and beeps of computerized respiration. Gibbs, Tony, and Tim strode quietly down the wide hallway to where Dr. Druckman was posted outside Ziva's door.

"She's here," he said quietly. "But I have to warn you that, as a precaution, we have Ms. David intubated and on a ventilator. We're anticipating that the swelling will increase after tonight's treatment and she'll no longer be able to breathe on her own. Do you have any questions before you go in?"

No one spoke up.

"Ok, then. Don't be afraid to touch her or talk to her. Assume she knows you're there. Just be careful of the IVs."

"What is she on?" Tim asked.

"Dilantin. It's an anti-seizure medication. She had some neurological storms pass through about fifteen minutes ago. Otherwise it's just fluids." He held the door open and all three of them stepped into Ziva's room.

"For God's _sake_," Tony gasped, and crouched low with his back to the wall.

Gibbs resisted joining him. Instead, he stepped close to the bedside and reached down to take her hand. It was warm and dry and very, very small. He peered down into her face, obscured by the endotracheal tube and medical-grade adhesive tape. Her eyes were twitching beneath paper-thin lids. She was immobilized still in the cervical collar, and two weighted cushions were chocked at chest level on either side of her torso.

"Hey," he whispered. "It's going to be ok. We've got your back." He leaned down and left a soft kiss on her brow.

Tim woke the computer and skimmed through her treatment forms, clicking pictures with his smartphone. To send to Abby, no doubt, Tony thought before it dawned on him that perhaps no one had _told_ Abby.

He stood and took two big steps closer to the bed, right hand still cupped over his mouth. With one clumsy finger he traced the arc of her Ziva's left wrist.

"She's small," he whispered, eyes still locked on the endotracheal tube. "I never realized…"

Gibbs grunted in agreement.

"What are we going to do, Boss? What if…I mean…if she's…?"

Tim pocketed his phone and stood, silent. Gibbs squeezed Ziva's knee over the white cotton blanket.

"You can still swim, can't you? You're going to have to tow her in, DiNozzo. We aren't going to let her just tread water."


	2. Challengers

**Holy cannoli. Yous all have lit up my inbox with alerts and follows and reviews. Who has two thumbs and is SUPER LUCKY? THIS GIRL.**

**Seriously though, thanks. For all your niceness and criticism and good things. Let's all frolic together in the daisies. And hold hands around the campfire. Because I make my own marshmallows and they're fabulous in s'mores.**

**. . . .**

_Be safe, you say._

_Whatever the mess you are,_

_ you're mine, ok?_

_ -New Pornographers, "Challengers."_

Ziva's room hadn't yet received the rising sunlight. Tony dozed in the gloom, chin on his chest, hands loose over the arms of the chair. Gibbs nudged him and he shot upright.

"Been here all night?" He passed him a coffee.

"Yeah." Tony took it and passed his free hand over his face.

Gibbs grunted. "How did the procedure go?"

"Ok, I guess. She 'responded well,' the said, but we won't know anything until they wean her off the Propofol."

"She's sedated now?"

Tony bobbed his head. "They want to keep her still until the steroids can do their job. Then they'll bring her around and test her neurological functioning."

Even in the dim Gibbs could see betadine stains between his knuckles. "Did they let you scrub in?"

He shrugged. "Boss, I couldn't let her go through that alone."

He took a long swallow of coffee and watched the ventilator tick. The tape on Ziva's face had been replaced with a T-Holder. Her left wrist was anchored with an IV board.

"It was awful," Tony said quietly. "They took her downstairs to radiography and they strapped her to a table and stuck a needle in her neck like this." He held his coffee cup eight inches from his other hand. "She twitched for two hours afterwards, even though they said she wouldn't be in pain. They said her body was responding to the needle. I told them to give her more drugs, but they couldn't."

Gibbs' heart ached. Suffering was manifold in room N-704.

"They said she wouldn't remember it when she woke up," Tony said quietly, and stood up. He arched his back and yawned hard.

"Go take a shower," Gibbs ordered. "I'll sit with her for a while. Abby is on her way out. She's been busy with the forensics of the Zeimetz case. And she's hacking Bolling PD for info about what happened to Ziva."

Tony couldn't muster any appropriate language. He just nodded again, tossed his empty coffee cup, and leaned over Ziva, still eerily motionless in bed.

"Call me if anything changes, ok?"

Gibbs nodded. "Yeah."

Tony pressed a lingering kiss to her dry cheek and left.

. . . .

When he returned—showered, shaved, and in jeans and a fresh sweater—he found Abby and Gibbs seated side by side in matching plastic chairs. The hospital recliner was left unoccupied, saved for him, no doubt. He handed each of them a paper bag from the bakery on his block. Coffee for Gibbs, Caf-Pow for Abby.

"Anything?" He asked.

"Nada," Abby supplied. But I have this." She handed him a file folder. Inside were two police reports and a mugshot of Tony's fat Ravens fan.

"That's the guy you picked up. His name is Thomas DeCroo; he's a civilian and a transient. They're still running the prints, but he's suspected of breaking into three houses on base." Abby sipped her drink and sat back, pleased with herself.

He turned the page and found a photo of the pipe DeCroo had been carrying when Tony stopped him.

"That's the weapon he was carrying." Her voice got softer. "They found long dark hair on the threads at one end."

He closed the file. "He bludgeoned her," he said softly. "He thought she was looking for him, so he bludgeoned her." He continued to nod, eyes darting.

Suddenly he stopped and sat up straight. "That rotten bastard beats a federal agent half to death and he's getting free meals and indoor plumbing? That isn't fair," he said quietly. "That isn't goddamn fair."

"I know," Gibbs agreed.

Abby crumbled, green eyes welling. "What are we doing to do?" She wailed. "We'll get through it," Gibbs said in her ear. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him.

The day nurse bustled in. Shift change occurred while Tony was away, so he didn't know her name.

"I'm Anya," she said briskly, and smiled. Her teeth were straight and white but had the squarish look of a childhood in the Eastern Bloc. "I'm Ziva's nurse, and Joelle is her aide. Right now we're monitoring her for any changes after the injections."

"Any more seizures?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Anya said succinctly. "The Dilantin took care of them. It's doubtful they'll return unless her concussion suddenly gets worse, or the swelling from the steroids works its way into her brain stem."

Abby's mouth fell open and Anya noticed. "That's a very rare and extreme phenomenon," she amended. "It's not likely now—we're coming up on the twenty-four hour mark, post-injury."

"Is she going to be a quadriplegic?" Abby blurted. "I need to know. I need to help her."

Anya adjusted Ziva's vent settings. "I don't know," she said honestly. "It's possible, but you have to remember that her spinal cord is bruised, not severed, so there's a chance that she won't be. We'll start those evaluations once we take her off the sedatives."

"Is she in pain?" Tony rasped. He looked pale and hollow.

Anya sighed. "She was for a while and she will be again. She has two fractured vertebrae, which, in itself, is a painful injury. Once she's a little more stable—probably tomorrow morning—the orthopedist will fit her with a brace to keep that part of her spine straight while it heals. The contusion on her spinal cord can be tricky. They can be painless or they can be excruciating. It depends on the person and the injury."

"What about the long term?" Gibbs demanded.

"Don't count any chickens," she warned. "We'll think about tomorrow. Tomorrow, we'll think about the next day. When we can stop thinking about one day, we can start thinking about two days." She recorded Ziva's blood pressure and made to leave. "Is there think I can get for any of you? Water? Coffee?"

Three heads shook, but Tony stopped and thought, then reconsidered. "Can I have a cot? I'd like to stay tonight with her."

"I'll call down to House," she agreed. "And I'm sure Ziva would love the company. You know, you should talk to her a little more. Unless you're always this boring." She winked and left the room.

Tony wondered if she was right. He approached the bed with trepidation, wishing he could rub some color back into her face. "Hey, Sweet Cheeks," he began, feeling a little foolish. "How are you doing? I know whatever's going on in there can't be easy. Why don't you wake up and yell at us for getting you stuck in here?"

Unsurprisingly, Ziva didn't respond. Tony brushed at her hair. He tucked a curl behind her ear, flinching when his fingertips brushed the extrication collar fastened around her neck.

Abby tucked his arm against her side. "I have to go."

She picked up Ziva's right hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing the knuckles gently. "I gotta go, Ziva," she said nervously. "But I'll be back, ok? I'm just going to make sure the guy who clobbered you doesn't get away with it."

She grabbed Tony in a tight hug and was gone.

. . . .

Dr. Druckman told Anya to discontinue the sedatives that evening. Twenty-four hours after the steroid injections, a CT scan revealed that Ziva's swelling had begun to recede. Tony was overjoyed and anxious; how would Ziva cope?

Tim brought him dinner around nine—fettucine alle olio and a coffee. He flopped into the unoccupied chair with a sigh. "Abby is making everyone crazy with the forensics. She hacked Bolling PD and they found out. She got a slap on the wrist for it."

Tony stuffed his face with noodles and olives. "Bet Gibbs loved that."

Tim rolled his eyes. "You think she got in trouble? She could burn down the Navy Yard and he'd justify and defend her reasoning."

The heart monitor changed rhythms and an alarm, turned down, rang.

Tony jumped and nearly threw his pasta against the wall. Anya swept in and flipped a switch on the computer terminal. The beeping stopped.

"The hell was that?" He demanded.

"She's coming around." Anya grinned and angled the ventilator bellows toward herself. "She's tripping the vent. She's fighting it—trying to breathe on her own. It's a good thing," she promised. "I'm going to report this to Dr. Druckman, and I'll bet good money that she'll be awake by morning."

Tim smiled nervously. "This is all good, Tony. The faster she wakes up, the better her chances are."

Tony wasn't appeased. "I know that," he snapped. "But waking up means pain. I'm not happy about that."

Tim hung his head and dangled his long, pale hands between his knees. "Maybe we should speak to Dr. Druckman about pain management."

"You think I don't know that, McKnowitall?"

_"DiNozzo_," Gibbs snapped. He strode in and stopped short before Ziva's bedside. With a flexibility no one knew he possessed, he reached behind him and delivered a sharp slap to Tony's head.

"Watch your ass," he warned lowly, and stroked Ziva's cheek with fatherly tenderness.

"Hey, Ziver, wanna open up for us?"

No one expected her eyelids to flicker, but they did. Her lashes swept up and back down in a split-second.

Gibbs chafed her cheek with his callused fingertips. "C'mon, David. Try again."

The flickering lasted a little longer this time. Tony saw the whites of her eyes flash and then another alarm—this one louder—sounded.

Anya swept in again, a regular hurricane in purple scrubs. She checked the vent and made an adjustment. "Keep up whatever you're doing. I have the doctor on his way up." She left again, nearly running.

Gibbs set down his coffee and laid both hands on Ziva's apple cheeks. "Open 'em, Ziver. It's time to get up. Tony and Tim and I are all here and we want to talk to you."

Stillness, flickering, then stillness again. All three men sighed convulsively, feeling defeated. Perhaps tonight was too early. She wasn't ready. She was too tired.

And then her eyes opened fully. Wet and unfocused, they swept lazily around the room. Gibbs held his breath.

Tony dropped his plastic fork and laid aside the Styrofoam container. "Hey, Zi," he said calmly. "Can you look at me?"

Her dark eyes rolled and he could tell she was processing nothing.

"Hey, I'm over here." He stroked the arm closest to him. She didn't react except to gaze, unseeing, around the hospital room again.

"Ziva," he said a bit more sternly. "Focus, ok?" He leaned hard over the bedside rail, making sure to plant his face directly in her line of sight.

She looked at him then, blinking up at his face. Her brow furrowed and she closed her eyes.

"It's ok," he fumbled. He brushed a hand over her brow and found it slick with sweat. Her hair was damp at the root and curled a little around her ears.

"Why is she hot?" He wondered.

Gibbs grabbed her hand. It was too warm and limp in his own.

Tim met the doctor in the doorway. "She's conscious and responding to verbal commands. She's sweating and dazed. Pain response?"

The doc leaned over Ziva. "Hey," he said into her face. "I'm Dr. Druckman. I'm going to take care of you, ok? Can you blink for me?"

She blinked first at the him, then at Tony.

"Good," he praised. "Blink again if you're in pain, Ziva."

She blinked again, hard and deliberate.

The doctor turned to two aides who'd followed him in. "Get Anya," he ordered sharply. "We need high-dose NSAIDS, stat."

Tony curled an arm around the top of her head. "It'll be ok. We're going to get you some medicine to knock the pain down a bit. Maybe it'll help you sleep, too."

Druckman shook his head. "No, I'm going to hold off on narcotics until we're sure her head injury is stable. I'm just ordering anti-inflammatories for now."

Tim and Gibbs stepped close to the bed again. Gibbs picked up her hand again and stoked her forearm idly. Tim, ever the shy one, just stood by and worried silently. Anya returned, distributed the meds, and left again.

Dr. Druckman made a note in her file and pulled all three men aside. "I'm glad she's conscious, but let her rest for now. Keep stimuli to a minimum and she should sleep through the night. First thing tomorrow we'll get her up and start the tests. I'm going to order a CT scan now and the consult with orthopedics tomorrow morning."

He looked into three stunned, exhausted faces. "Go home. Get some rest. This might seem like the hard part, but it isn't—not by a long shot."

Tony dragged a hand over his face. "I'm staying," he said resolutely. "I can't leave her…I mean, not now."

Gibbs nodded and Tim mimicked him, staring at his shoes.

"We'll be back at oh-seven-hundred," he promised. He kissed Ziva's hand once, slapped Tony's shoulder, and left.

McGee stood. "I should go, too. I told Abby I'd stop by the lab again tonight before I went home. Maybe take her something to eat, too."

Tony rolled his eyes. Puppylike Tim was willing to drive across Greater DC twice if it meant spending a few hours with his favorite lab rat. He smiled without malice.

"Ok, McColburn, have a nice trek across town. Tell Abby that Ziva will want to see her in the morning."

Nervous McGee nodded. "I will," he agreed quietly, and glanced back at the bed. "Let's think positive, ok? I'd like to be as optimistic as possible."

_Because the thought of a disabled Ziva terrifies you_, Tony thought mutely, and couldn't find the heart to disagree. He gave him a rough guy-hug and an affectionate slap on the back of the neck.

"Ok. We'll hope for the best and prepare for the worst." He grinned for lack of a better way to express his fear.

Tim nodded, eyes wet. "Goodnight, Tony," he mumbled, and shambled down the hall to the elevator.

. . . .

Ziva was long gone when Gibbs arrived; she'd been woken, medicated, and wheeled down to radiology for x-rays and yet another scan of her brain and spinal cord. Tony was reclined in his usual spot, sipping a coffee and playing fantasy basketball on his phone.

"Hey, Boss," he greeted. He was smiling despite the obvious fatigue in his eyes.

"How was last night?"

"Ok," he shrugged. "As long as the nurses kept the NSAIDS coming Ziva didn't do too badly."

"Any test results yet?"

"No," he sighed. "They want to get the images back first. Ortho will be down as soon as she's back."

Gibbs didn't fill the room with needless talk. They drank coffee in silence and when Ziva was returned to the room—awake, but still intubated—they both jumped up to hover over her.

"Hey, Ziver," Gibbs said quietly. "I heard you're behaving yourself."

She stared up at him, eyes wide and druggy, then blinked deliberately.

Gibbs smiled. "You give 'em hell when they deserve it, ok?"

She blinked again and swept the room with her eyes, obviously looking for Tony.

"I'm here," he said quietly, and picked up her right hand. She had yet to make any intentional movement, but he promised himself that he'd wait for the doctor to make any drastic statements.

There was a knock on the doorframe, and a tall, thin, muscular woman came in carrying a flat cardboard package.

"I'm Amy," she said happily. "I'm Miss _Dav-eed_'s orthopedist. I'm here to fit her for the cervical-thoracic orthosis she'll need for the next few months." She offered firm handshakes to both Tony and Gibbs, then stood back and looked them over approvingly.

"A team is good," she affirmed. "She'll need you. Just hang in with her."

Tony nodded. "So how do we help now?"

She shook her head. "I'll need my assistant and a nurse to help with the initial fitting. After that, I'll show you how to adjust it and check for skin breakdown."

He shuddered and zombie film images danced across his brain. "Skin breakdown?" He sputtered. "What does that mean?"

Amy was already emptying the box she's bought. "Ziva will be wearing this for twenty-four hours a day. No matter what precautions we take, her skin will rub and wear on the pressure points. That can be painful and lead to infection. I'll show you how to look for and take care of it. She probably won't be able to do it herself. Not at first, anyway."

Gibbs nodded and tossed his empty cup. Ziva's day nurse, Justine, and the orthopedic assistant—a beefy no-neck in tailored sweats—came in to help. They worked quickly and gently, explaining each step of the process as they went. Ziva hovered in twilight, dozing as they fitted the front of the vest to her chest and waking when she was rolled so they could lay the back piece under her. The two were connected with padded nylon straps around her sides and over her shoulders. Justine steadied Ziva's head with a hand firm at each temple, and Amy removed the cervical collar only to replace it with another one. A Y-shaped upright front and back connected the vest to the collar and Amy stepped back to eye her work. Ziva was asleep, exhausted from the twenty minutes it took to manipulate her into the brace.

Tony sighed. "That thing is…intense," he fumbled. "How long?"

Amy shrugged. "Three months minimum. She'll be assessed constantly for proper healing." She showed him how to mash the padding down and check Ziva's chin, shoulders, and ribs for torn or blistered skin. He nodded along, running his fingertips over Ziva's exposed flesh when he could. Finally Amy excused herself and left.

Tony sighed hard at the bulky brace and looked at Gibbs, shaking his head. "This is nuts," he muttered.

Gibbs' eyes hardened. "Tell that to Ziva," he shot back, and Tony shrank, but reached for her hand.

"Ya ok, Sweet Cheeks?"

Ziva slept on. Justine gave her another dose of anti-inflammatories and patted his hand. "Dr. Druckman will be in now that she's stabilized. He'll order more x-rays and start the exams."

"Thank you," Gibbs said carefully.

Tony just nodded and laid a hand on Ziva's head. "It's ok, Ninja." He voice was soft, sincere. "It's ok. I'll take good care of you."

Dr. Druckman came in an hour later, calling Ziva's name and rubbing her hands with his. She opened her eyes but made no other response.

"Follow the light," he ordered and she obeyed, but he frowned. "Still concussed," he reported.

Gibbs rolled his eyes in a way that meant, _of course she is, jackass._

He had her open and close her eyes, raise her eyebrows, and puff her cheeks. He clapped his hands to test her hearing, and waved his hands in her peripheral vision. She passed each test but he seemed unsatisfied, even agitated.

He picked up both of her hands. "Squeeze my hands, Ziva."

She blinked at him. Her hands laid lax in his. Gibbs and Tony held their breath.

"Blink if you feel me rubbing, ok?" He rubbed coarsely at her knuckles with his thumbs. She blinked at him again.

"Good," he praised. "Very good, Ziva." Gibbs and Tony exhaled nervously.

Dr. Druckman moved to the end of the bed and pulled the covers back. Taking out a pen with the ink tip retracted, he ran it up the sole of her right foot, then the left. Ziva acted as though he hadn't touched her.

"No Babinski reflex," he said to the nurse, who made a note in the computer files.

"What does that mean?" Tony asked quietly.

"It means that Ziva has definite indications of paralysis in the lower extremities. She's got some serious weakness in the upper extremities, but has maintained sensation in her hands." He nodded once, curtly. "For now, anyway. I want to extubate and let her rest for a while. Once she's up again I'll test her oral motor skills and speech."

Tony slumped in his seat. Gibbs nodded and ran a hand over his head.

Dr. Druckman and the nurse—not one either Tony or Gibbs recognized—took their places at either side of her head. The nurse detached the ventilator tube and Druckman instructed Ziva to take a deep breath and blow. He pulled and the tube came out. Ziva rasped wetly and her face went red.

"Suction," he ordered quietly, and turned back to Tony.

"Her cough is weak; she should be doing a better job of clearing her airway. For now we'll do oxygen, but I'm going to put her on a twice-daily nebulizer treatment of steroids and antibiotics. That should give her the boost she needs to start coughing on her own."

He nodded, eyes filling. Gibbs pulled him out of his chair and into the hall. Tony took a breath, held it for a moment to center himself, and burst into tears. Gibbs held him close, his hand firm on the back Tony's neck.

"It's ok, son," he said. His own voice was gruff with emotion. "We can do this. _You_ can do this."

Tony cried for a few minutes, then wiped his face on his sleeve and blew out a harsh breath. "I can't lose her, Boss. I just…can't…" His voice faded and he studied the floor tiles, counting the rows until he was calmer.

"You have to do this, DiNozzo. Ziva can't. I got your six, though. All right?"

Tony nodded and checked in on Ziva. Her eyes were closed but she was still breathing heavily, even though the nurse had secured an oxygen mask to her face.

He turned back to Gibbs. "What should I do?"

Gibbs looked at him like he was an idiot. "What do you mean? Get in there and tell your girl that you got her six. Jesus, DiNozzo, do I need to hold your hand while you cross the damn street?"

He smiled at that. "No, but can you show me again how to tie my shoes?"

Gibbs laughed-really laughed-and slapped his head again.

Ziva opened her eyes when he got closer.

"Hey, baby," he sighed. "You need to know that I got your six, ok?"

She blinked.

"And so do those fools," he yanked his head toward the door, where Gibbs was talking quietly to McGee and Abby.

She blinked again, appearing to understand.

"And I love you," he said softly.

She blinked again and maybe, just maybe, smiled under the oxygen mask.


	3. Wish I Could Forget

**Geez, guys. Thanks, as always. You're the best ever. EVER. Evah? Love and love, Mecha.**

_ Funny how a heart shatters all at once; _

_ seems like it should make a sound._

_ -The Weepies, "Wish I Could Forget."_

Two boots appeared in Tony's line of sight first. Then two legs, then two hands, each holding a cup of expensive Jamaican coffee from a café in Arlington. Gibbs had gone thirty minutes out of his way—_each_ way—to bring Tony a Blue Mountain blend guaranteed to lift his sour mood. He accepted it graciously and took a long sip.

"And?" Gibbs sat down and kicked his long legs out in front of him.

"They woke her up two hours ago and took her upstairs for some nerve tests. They said it would be a while yet. Then they're doing an MRI."

Gibbs grunted and nodded, then whipped out the morning paper. He laid it, still folded, on his knee. He checked his watch: six-fifty-three. The doctors woke Ziva before five? No wonder Tony looked exhausted, almost ill. He sighed internally.

"I think Abby and McGee slept at the lab last night. They were running a DNA test on the hair they found on that pipe."

"It's Ziva's," Tony said quietly. His shoulders tensed and he ran his empty hand through his hair.

"I know that," Gibbs replied gently. "But we need proof."

Tony nodded. "Anything from the DeCroo?"

Gibbs grimaced. "He was incomprehensible during the interview. Prelim psych eval says he's mentally ill. Probably schizophrenic. Bolling PD has a forensic psychologist coming in this afternoon to check him out."

"Watch them find him unfit to stand trial," Tony spat. "Just watch. He'll spend eighteen months on a psych ward and then they'll cut him loose and he'll walk away like this never happened. What about Ziva? Does she get to walk away? No. She might not ever walk again."

Tony shook his head. Suddenly the hospital lights were too bright, the sanitized hallways too pungent with bleach. He wanted to sprint to the elevator and out the doors, but Gibbs' hand on his arm stopped him.

"Hey," he said quietly, and pointed to a dark-haired woman in the doorway. She was tall and broad-shouldered with fine features and clear brown eyes. With her were Amy the orthopedist and two young physician's assistants.

"Hi," she said calmly. "My name is Dr. Ellen Monroe. I've taken over Ziva's care from Dr. Druckman. We've got the results of her exams and we'd like to speak to you about them."

"Yes," Tony sputtered, feeling like he'd been caught off-guard. He stood and motioned them inside.

Dr. Monroe wheeled a stool out of the corner and sat in it. "I've taken Ziva's case because I'm part of a research team. Spinal Cord Injuries are rare among women—over eighty percent of patients are men. I'm recording the emotional and physical differences during the duration of the recovery period. Any questions about that? Any objections?"

Tony and Gibbs shook their heads numbly.

"As you know, Ziva had swelling between C3 and T2. We gave her a round of steroids and that swelling increased initially, then decreased dramatically. We're calling it a successful treatment, but clearly there has been some neurological damage."

She paused to scrutinize them; the older man was staring at her, hardening himself to whatever difficulty she was going to lay on him. The younger man had tears in his eyes; his features were softer, more open. Satisfied that neither of them was going to shoot her or pass out, she continued.

"Ziva has sensation everywhere above the bottom of her sternum. She can feel pressure, pain, heat and cold, and we're pretty confident that she'll get most—if not all—movement back. As for below that point, there is definite loss of sensation; she can feel firm pressure but that's about it. She has no muscle control below her chest."

Tony felt numb, disconnected. "Is it permanent?"

"We don't know," she answered honestly. "Chances are about fifty-fifty right now. But my team and I—Amy, John, and myself—are going to approach her rehabilitation as though she has a one hundred percent chance of a full recovery." She smiled, then grew serious. "You should know that we may have underestimated Ziva's head injury. When we gave her some verbal and oral-motor tests today she had some noticeable word-finding delays that indicate moderate aphasia; she understands what's being said to her but she's struggling for a response. She seems to have suffered a mild TBI but there's no obvious damage on any of the images we've taken thus far. It may become more visible in later scans."

"Doc," Gibbs started. "English isn't Ziva's first language. Or her second. It might be her fifth."

Simone—the only woman who wasn't Amy or the doctor—smiled sadly. "We've accounted for that, Agent Gibbs. There _is_ a deficit. She'll probably need some speech therapy after the concussion clears."

Dr. Monroe leaned forward and handed them each a handful of pamphlets. "This is some information for families of SCI patients. It's a challenging time for everyone. Be patient with Ziva and with yourselves, but keep your expectations high. If you expect her to succeed, she will, too."

Gibbs took them, nodded, and frowned. "Where is she now?"

"She's with Ortho, having a few measurements taken. Blood clots are a risk with the type of paralysis Ziva is experiencing, so we'll splint and stimulate her legs to keep blood flowing and her muscles from shortening."

"Is that going to hurt?" Tony periodically flashed back to the few hours after the steroid injections. The helplessness of those dark hours still weighted on him.

"No," Dr. Monroe answered simply. "We want to make her more comfortable, not less. The lower we keep her pain levels, the better off she'll be."

Amy jumped in. "I'll go over everything with you once she returns. You can help with positioning, splinting, stretching, and general comfort. Later with transfers and bathing, too."

Gibbs had to clear his throat before speaking. All this talk of bathing and turning made him anxious. "What about therapies? How soon can she start?"

"Depends," Amy said, shrugging. She motioned to John, who smiled and offered a little wave. "John is Ziva's respiratory therapist."

Dr. Monroe cut off the introductions. "Ziva's diaphragm is still weak, but she's definitely improving. She can clear her airway now with minimal help. She can't have anything by mouth, though-we can't have her aspirating any food or liquids; it's a fast track to severe pneumonia. We inserted a naso-gastric feeding tube this morning. She'll have it for the foreseeable future."

Tony waved his hands and shook his head. His eyes were wide, face white with stress. "Wait," he demanded. "Wait. _Wait_. Last week Ziva ran a six-minute mile. Today you're telling me she can't eat_, _she can't move, and she can't speak_._" He paused to swallow and push up his sleeves. "I can't take it. When will she be back? I want to see her." He stood and began to pace the small room, draining his coffee and tossing the cup half-heartedly towards the trash.

Dr. Monroe nodded and stood with him. "I understand, Agent DiNozzo. I would feel the same way if my teammate was in a similar position. I just want to get the facts of her condition across to you. This is serious, but remember that she's still Ziva. She may need some accommodations now, but she's still Ziva. She still needs you to love her."

Tony blushed and felt Gibbs' eyes on his face. Yes, they were _a thing_. They didn't talk much about it, though, and they were strictly professional at work for fear of getting split up. And now? Who knew. He was suddenly desperate for her company.

Amy's phone beeped. "Ortho wants to bring her back down," she informed them. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Gibbs said smartly, giving them no time to balk. "We'd love to see her."

The elevator dinged down the long hallway, and seconds later two aides rolled her bed back into the room and positioned it back under the oxygen hookups. Tony wondered mildly what was with Walter Reed and the big, burly guys, but then he remembered that it was a military hospital—most patients were equally big and burly.

Amy caught his expression. "She's easy, trust me. We've got guys on this floor who are six-four, six-six, and over three hundred pounds."

Tony smirked. Ziva topped out at one-eighteen in the middle of winter, after a big meal, wearing her heaviest sweater and IDF-issue boots.

Tony watched the men switch her from portable oxygen to the wall-mount unit. Ziva was awake and looking for them.

"These guys could probably palm her like a basketball," he quipped, and Amy nodded.

Gibbs leaned over Ziva and spoke quietly into her face, smiling. She stared back, the right corner of her mouth tipped upwards.

"What are these extra IVs for?" He blurted. Two more needles were embedded in Ziva's left forearm.

"Diuretics, anti-inflammatories, steroids, pain medication, and fluids. We want to her cells to keep flushing themselves clean; it's how she's done so well already."

Tony stroked her head gently and Ziva rolled her eyes to look at him. The tiny smile didn't fade, but pain and fatigue were clear in her gaze.

"Hi," he said gently. "Bet you're tired from all that test nonsense."

"Yes," she squeaked. The endotracheal tube had left a bit of swelling in her throat. Her voice was higher than normal and a little raspy.

"Did it hurt when they put the tube in?" He stroked her cheek where the feeding tube was taped.

She clicked her tongue and Tony understood what the doctor meant by _word-finding difficulties_. She searched his face as if the answer was written there.

"Hm?" He prompted.

"No," she finally warbled. "It…it …" She closed her eyes and took two difficult breaths.

Dr. Monroe and John were suddenly pressing themselves between the two of them. The doctor rubbed her chest just below where the CTO brace ended, and John unhooked a narrow-nozzled suction tube from its holder in the wall.

"Ok, Ziva," he instructed. "Big cough for me."

She opened her mouth and forced air between her lips. John jammed the suction tube into the back of her throat and the doctor rubbed harder, encouraging her to get rid of the gunk in her throat and nose. The noise—a deep, rattling, sucking sound—was too much for Tony and he nearly gagged; the whole process was gross and a little too violent. He turned away, embarrassed for her. Certain she could breathe again, John and Dr. Monroe replaced her oxygen cannula—an improvement over the mask—and stepped away.

Tony again curled himself over her. "Ya ok?" He begged. "Ok, Sweet Cheeks?"

"It's…"she started, and trailed off. "It's _hard_." She finally mustered.

"I know," he cooed. "But it's going to get easier. We are going to make sure that you get better."

"Ok," she sighed.

Suddenly Abby was standing alongside him, reaching into the bed to rub Ziva's arm and peer into her face.

"Hey, Ziva," she said brightly. "How are you doing?"

"Ok," she replied haltingly.

Tony gripped the bedside rails tighter and wished she could cut away and mutter _I am fine_ like she always did, eyes narrowed at their casual concern.

Abby whirled on the doctor. "Can we bring some of her things here? Maybe an afghan? If she's going to be here for a while I'd like her to have some familiar stuff."

Dr. Monroe nodded. "Of course. You're welcome to bring a few mementos from home if you'd like."

Abby nodded. "Ok, so Ziva, you and I are going to make a list of the things you want from your apartment, and I'll get them after work and bring them back here, ok?"

"Ok," she echoed. Her eyes slid closed.

Tony brushed his hand down her hair. "Why don't you rest, Zi? I'll stick around to make sure nobody bothers you."

She'd fallen asleep by the time he'd finished his sentence.

"It was her hair on DeCroo's pipe," Abby whispered. "I just got the results back fifteen minutes ago. I sent them to Bolling and their tech sent me an email asking for crime scene photos."

He almost gagged again at the idea of taking pictures of Ziva, crumpled and traumatized, in the underbrush.

"Jesus," he sighed, and threw himself down in the recliner. "And we're waiting for the eval on DeCroo. Anything on Jantzen?"

She shrugged. "He goes to arraignment this afternoon. I think he's going down for it, for sure. I mean, he kept the damn weapon." She waved her hands comically. "Lady Macbeth called," she mocked. "She wants her knife back." She rolled her eyes and jammed her tongue in her cheek.

He laughed softly and Abby smirked, self-satisfied; she'd ben trying to lighten his mood. She lazed against the arm of his chair and he laced an arm around her waist.

"Thanks, Abbs. I needed that."

"I know," she agreed, and grinned goofily at him.

He should've known that if he got Abby, Tim would be a half-step behind. He tiptoed in behind a hulking vase of flowers—a gift from the department. Tony could read the card from where he sat.

"Here, McGreen-thumb, I'll take those." He slid them carefully onto the windowsill, surprised at the weight of the arrangement. Despite the size, it was tastefully done in shades of purple.

"Nice work, Timmy," Abby praised, and Tony knew she'd had something to do with it.

Tim blushed. "I know Ziva likes purple. I hoped she'd find visual interest in the variation on a single-color palette. I stayed away from more common cut flowers and stuck with species native to the Mid-Atlantic seaboard. Do you think she'll like them?"

Tony nodded, smiling. "I do, McGee, thanks. I'll make sure she sees them when she wakes up."

Tim shifted from foot to foot, restless. Gibbs was still speaking to the doctor and provided no distraction. "Well," he ventured quietly. "What did the doctor say?"

"A lot of things," Tony sighed. "But they think she can make serious progress towards a full recovery. And that's what matters."

Tim released a deep breath and nodded. "May I look at her scans and records? Maybe I can do some research on how we can help her. I mean, we're not doctors or physical therapists, but I'm sure there are things we can do."

Abby leaped up and switched on the computer terminal next to Ziva's bed. Her hands flew, and within a few keystrokes she was shooing him out the door to pick up printouts at the nurses station.

She turned to Tony, voice low. "He's struggling with this," she hissed. "He feels so guilty that he turned his back on her. It's eating him up, Tony."

Guilt gnawed harder at his insides. "Sorry, Abby. I've been kind of busy since that morning. I'm just trying to make sense of all of this. I'm trying to do everything I can…" His voice broke, but he pressed on. "To do everything right by her. I got her into this mess, I should be able to get her out of it."

Tears coursed down his unshaven cheeks. Abby grabbed him in a tight hug and buried her face in his shirt. He felt his skin go damp and he knew she was crying with him.

Gibbs approached, but didn't touch either of them. "Hey guys," he said quietly. "It's going to be ok."

Abby gave him a tearful fisheye. "How can you say that? How can you make a promise when we don't even know what the next hour is going to bring?"

"A father knows," he said, and produced a Caf-Pow seemingly out of nowhere. She accepted it and took a gracious sip.

His phone beeped. "Yeah," he answered. "Gibbs." He turned stiffly and stepped into the hallway.

Tim looked up from his printouts. "I think that's Vance. I might've I heard his voice."

Tony let go of Abby and sat again in the recliner. The panic feeling in his chest receded a bit now that the doctors were gone. Reaching between the rails, he picked up Ziva's right hand and held it, warm and light, in his own.

Gibbs stepped back in. "That was Vance. Eli David is on the next flight out of Ben Gurion. We should see him by morning."

The panic welled again, spreading into Tony's chest, across his arms, into the hand that held Ziva's. His grip tightened and she woke, blinking.

"Hm?" She wondered.

"Sorry," he fumbled. "Gibbs just said your father is coming tomorrow."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Oh," was all she could say before she drifted off again.

"Boss," he whispered. "You don't think he'll take her back to Israel, do you?"

Abby gasped, Tim dropped his papers, and Gibbs shrugged. "Dunno, DiNozzo. I hope not. But she's made you and I her health care proxies and POAs, so let's not worry about that until the lawyers start calling. I'm headed to the Yard for a few hours. Anyone with me?"

Tim stood, "I'll go with you. I need to spend some time doing research. I want to know what kind of study Ziva's going to be a part of. Maybe there are some safe experimental treatments the doctors could try."

They rose to leave. "Abbs?" Gibbs called.

She shook her head. "I told Ziva we'd make a list of things I would bring her from home. I'll stay until she wakes up, then head to her place. I can't do anything until we hear from base police—they have all my evidence."

Gibbs gave Tony a shove to the shoulder. "Call me if you need anything," he whispered, and kissed Ziva's cheek above the feeding tube.

"You, too," he said in her ear and left, Tim traipsing behind with his armload of records.

. . . .

Tony woke with a snort, having fallen asleep unexpectedly. His neck and back were stiff and aching, his arms sore from being crossed over his chest. He leaned forward slowly and the blood raced down his legs and into his feet.

Abby had arched her back onto the mattress so she and Ziva were side-by-side. She was holding her tablet computer in the air over so they could both see what was on the screen.

"This one?" She pointed to one corner of the screen. "Or this one."

"Yes," Ziva said to the second, and Abby tapped on it, sending the image into a folder with a soft _whoosh_.

"What're ya doin'?" He grumbled.

"While you were catching flies I went back to Ziva's place and took pictures of a few things. We're just deciding which ones I should bring for her. I also brought you a clean set of clothes."

He looked at where she pointed to the plastic visitor chairs. There lay the outfit he kept at Ziva's house; a grey sweater and jeans. Underclothes and socks in a paper shopping bag on the floor. Embarrassment swept over him—how many times had he felt like that today?—but Abby rolled her eyes.

"Whatever, Tony. Just change already. You smell like disinfectant and stale coffee." She turned back to Ziva. "You tolerate him looking like that?"

Another vague smile ghosted across her face. "Yes," she said quietly, and they both heard the hesitation that meant she was trying to come up with something else to say.

"Relax," Abby urged gently. "We're not going anywhere. But Tony is. To the bathroom. To Change."

Ziva smiled again.

Anya swept in, said hello, and set her up with her nebulizer treatment. "I'll be back when that finishes," she announced, and left. Ziva practiced breathing deeply and evenly—like John taught her earlier—and closed her eyes.

Abby grabbed both of her hands and rubbed them gently. "You look like a dragon," she giggled. Indeed, the nebulizer created a fog with every exhale. It swirled out from the vents in the mask and rose to the ceiling before dissipating.

Ziva smiled and found Tony standing in the bathroom door, freshly shaved and in clean clothes.

"Hi…again," she breathed, smiling.

"Hi, Dragon Lady."

"Go home," she ordered. "Go…" She swallowed and closed her eyes. "Go…clean."

"Go shower," Abby translated. "I told you—you smell. Ziva wants you to go home and shower and rest for a bit. Probably because she needs a nap."

"Yes," Ziva sighed triumphantly. "That's…that's..."

"That is what she wants," Abby filled in. Ziva looked away, discouraged.

"Ok," he agreed. "I'll go home to shower and take a nap. Abby will bring your things from home. And I think everyone will come back this evening. Maybe we'll have dinner together."

She furrowed her brow. "No," she said quietly, and cast her eyes sideways to the pole that held her IV bags. When it was time to eat, Simone explained, a bag of nutrients and a diffuser would be attached to the tube in her nose. She'd be eating that way for a long time.

"I mean we'll come back here and enjoy each other's company. Some of us may eat. Others will hack computers, or rest, or read, or play backgammon. Or shop online for rhino horns." He was being silly now; he didn't like the defeated look in her eye or the sadness that pulled at the corners of her mouth.

"Ok," she said sadly.

"I love you," he sighed in her ear.

"Me…too," she replied, and met his eyes with a loaded look.

Abby cleared her throat and lifted her heavy black diver's watch to her face. "Ok, troops. We'll synchronize our watches and meet back here at nineteen-hundred hours."

Ziva smirked and rolled her eyes theatrically for Tony's sake.

"Sleep," he ordered gently. He blew her one final kiss, laid an arm around Abby's shoulders, and stepped into the hallway, bright with midday sun.


	4. A Good Man Is Hard To Find

__**I can't believe it, yous. I'm so grateful for the continued support-the questions I've had answered, the anxieties assuaged, the kindness and comments and alerts upon alerts. Thanks so much. You are so great. So great. Greater than great. We're talking conquering-armies great-that's how much I love you. For serious. Watch out below; liberties taken. Love, The Mecha**

_Hold to your gun, man,_

_ And put off all your peace._

_ -Sufjan Stevens, "A Good Man Is Hard To Find."_

Gibbs sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Thomas DeCroo, medicated for his schizo-affective disorder and somewhat lucid, looked sadly at the twenty inch length of galvanized pipe in front of him. It was in the NCIS evidence bag, labeled _possible weapon_ in Abby's even block letters.

"How did you get that, Thomas?" Gibbs kept his voice even, soothing.

"I found it," DeCroo replied softly. "On the ground."

"Did you use it to bludgeon my teammate, Agent David?"

DeCroo nodded miserably. "I thought she was going to shoot me. I thought she was going to take my things away from me."

Gibbs leaned forward. "What things?"

"My money," DeCroo said sadly. "I got some money and I was going to buy some food. I was so hungry. And I thought she was going to take it so I hit her."

"Thomas, my agent got very badly hurt when you hit her. She's in the hospital with a spinal cord injury. Do you know what that means?"

"Does it mean she needs a wheelchair?"

"Yes. She is in a lot of pain and will need a wheelchair. She used to be very strong and capable and now she needs her friends to do almost everything for her."

DeCroo began to cry softly. "I didn't want to hurt her so bad. I just wanted to make the yelling stop. Everyone is yelling. I hate yelling."

Gibbs felt a wave of disgust rise in him, and on its heels a wave of pity. "Thank you for talking to me, Thomas," he said tersely. "The police officers will take you back to the hospital now."

He left, stepping out of the Bolling PD interrogation room and into the hallway, where Tim was waiting for him with a laptop in his hands.

"I recorded everything digitally and I'm sending it to Abby right now. She'll get it in a minute and then we'll take his statement to Vance." A small crease appeared between his eyebrows. "Do you think NCIS will press charges, Boss? He seems so sick."

"He is, McGee. And so is Ziva."

"I know, Boss, but…"

Gibbs spun on him and they nearly crashed. "No _buts_, McGee. You put one of my agents in the hospital, you suffer for it. I don't care who or how ill you are."

"Right," Tim nodded.

Gibbs cruised down the hallway, out the doors, and into the parking lot. Tim chased after him, closing the laptop and grabbing his coat off the rack.

"You headed to Bethesda?"

"Ya think? Eli David just got though customs." His voice was sharp, dangerous.

Tim slid into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt. "You don't think he'll take her back to Israel, do you?"

Gibbs started the Charger. "Tony has first Power of Attorney. I have second. And furthermore, Ziva is a consenting adult. If she doesn't want to go back to Tel Aviv with her father then she doesn't have to. We'll make sure her wishes are respected."

He tore out of the parking lot, fat tires spitting cinders.

Tim grabbed the overhead handle. "What if she wants to go back?"

Gibbs tightened his grip on the wheel and angled the car onto the Anacostia Freeway. He swallowed to keep from snarling. "She doesn't," he growled, and jammed the accelerator.

. . . .

Tony arrived, showered, shaved, and rested as Anya was setting Ziva up for her morning nutritional diffusion.

"Good," she said, smiling toothily. "You can help me turn her."

Ziva was dozing, but woke when he laid his hands over hers.

"Morning," he said quietly.

She blinked lazily and smiled at him. "Hi," she rasped back, and coughed weakly.

Anya was ready with suction, and Tony didn't flinch this time when the secretions rattled their way out of Ziva's airways and down the tube.

"Better?"

"Yes," she sighed and frowned.

"What's wrong?" He finger-combed her hair away from her face. Maybe he'd braid it later.

"Ache," she said weakly. "Ache so much."

He moved from her hair to her cheek, which was clammy against his hand.

"Let's see if they'll let you have anything for it."

Anya was nodding. "Yes, we'll get her on some painkillers in a minute. Let's get her turned and check for pressure sores."

Tony was careful again not to flinch; _pressure sores_ just sounded icky. "Ok," he said lightly.

Anya pulled the blankets back; to Tony's surprise, Ziva's legs didn't look any different than they had before her injury—they didn't appear atrophied or pale, and when he slid an arm under her knees, as Anya instructed, they were stiff, not flaccid.

Anya frowned. "She's contracting already. We need to get Ortho down here ASAP to splint her. We don't want her muscles to tighten like this—her joints will lock up and it'll make rehab much more difficult, if not impossible."

She had him roll Ziva's knees toward him and handed him pillows and a cushion to keep her steady. A thorough exam found no redness on her calves, heels, or ankles.

"Looks good," she said gently. "The night shift turned her on time. Let's move her arms."

Again with her instruction, Tony rolled Ziva's shoulders towards him. Pillows were arranged, her arms were checked for sores, and Anya stood back, satisfied.

"Doing great, Ziva," she praised. "Let's push those painkillers and you'll be a lot happier."

"Ziva sighed. "Thank you. It's…it's…better."

"Being repositioned? That made you more comfortable?"

"Yes."

Anya raised her eyebrows at him. "Have the doctor check her out when she comes around. It looks like some of those nerves are waking up."

He smiled. "That's great!"

She shook her head. "It is, but that could mean serious pain later, and serious drugs. You don't want her to go there. Trust me."

Tony sobered immediately. "Oh. I thought it meant she was recovering."

"She is. But recovery is painful and slow. It's about checks and balances. You work for the government—shouldn't you know that?"

He took the jab in stride. "True," he conceded. "How you doing, Zi? How's that formula? Tasty?"

She stinkeyed him over the nebulizer mask. "Shush," she chastised.

"Sorry," he said cheekily, and grinned, happy she was willing to banter with him a little.

Anya left and the two of them had a brief moment of quiet. It was shattered, though, when Gibbs and Tim lead Eli into the room.

Ziva's eyes widened. "Papa," she started, but faded out.

"Ziva," he countered. "Director Vance told me everything that happened. _Ma shlomeach?"_

"_B'…"_ she began, but couldn't finish. "Ok," she finally replied.

He reached out to touch her but pulled back and turned to Tony, then Gibbs.

"How long will she be like this?" He demanded of them.

"Dunno," Gibbs said honestly. "But Dr. Monroe is pretty certain it isn't permanent."

Eli sat slowly in one of the visitor chairs, eyes on his daughter. Ziva was drifting on the pain medication. The hissing nebulizer was the only sound.

He wiped a hand over his mouth and spoke softly. "My parents were immigrants to Palestine during the War. They couldn't get visas, so they decided to walk from Bratislava to Jerusalem." His dark eyes burned. "They walked. They walked through gun battles and carpet bombings. They lost their home, their children, their parents, their synagogue, their community. They arrived at the Roman Gates with nothing but the teeth in their mouth."

He turned to Gibbs and spoke father-to-father. "I taught my children combat—to kill—because I couldn't let them walk away from from their country or from their faith." Eli looked at Ziva, flush-cheeked and immobilized. "I couldn't let them walk away from _me_. Israel is a country at war. Always at war. I can't take her back there if she cannot fight. She will be sacrificed like everyone else in our family."

He stood and kissed her head delicately. "I love you, my daughter," he whispered, and stepped back from the bedside.

"You will need this," he said to Gibbs and reached into his jacket. Two fat envelopes were produced and handed over. He turned to the door. "Promise me," he said over his shoulder. "Promise me she will have opportunities."

"She will," Tony replied.

"Let her become a poet," Eli said quietly. "Or a painter. Or a great scholar of Talmud. Let her become something I could not allow."

Tony nodded and nodded, eyes hot and wet.

Gibbs was suddenly furious. "What if she can't, Eli? What if she can't do anything after this? What if this is _it_?"

Eli's shoulders slumped. "Then make sure she gets the best possible care. Make sure she is peaceful."

He spared Ziva one last sorrowful glance and left.

Tim shifted uncomfortably. "Wow," he said quietly. "I expected…" he trailed off, thinking. "I expected something else," he finally finished, and opened his computer.

Tony swayed a little on his feet. "I thought he would take her." He was trying to contain his joy because she hadn't been packed up and wheeled out, bound for Tel Aviv.

Gibbs shook his head, flexing his hands. "He's not so possessive," he said tightly. "He's not so loyal."

A knock came on the doorframe. Amy poked her head in. "Hey," she said. "Anya called me down to get Ziva splinted. She's contracting?

Tony uncrossed his arms. "Yeah, her legs were really stiff when I turned her this morning."

Tim left quickly, checking his phone and muttering something about Abby.

Gibbs set down his coffee cup. "How can we help?" He asked.

"Well," Amy began. "Let's get her on her back, then I'll fit the splints. I had to change from one model to another after what Anya told me. Her knees are stiff?"

Tony pulled back the blankets. "Yeah, I bent them to roll her and it was difficult."

"Did she seem to be in any pain?"

Tony nodded. "She said she was more comfortable on her side."

Amy thought for a minute. "Let's do some range of motion exercises, put on some pressure leggings, and then we'll do splints. She should have less pain. Any headache?"

"Not that she told me," Tony shrugged. "She's never been too forward about pain."

"Well she'll need to be now. With SCI patients any discomfort can be a sign of something serious. Encourage her to be specific from now on."

Amy guided them through the stretches, spending more than half an hour on Ziva's joints, explaining why movement was important, how much force to use, and how to stimulate blood flow and prevent clots.

Ziva woke as they were finishing, jolting harshly from sleep to wakefulness. She moaned softly.

Tony was instantly on guard. "What's wrong, Sweet Cheeks?"

She blinked rapidly. "Head. Aching head. Ow, Tony."

"She definitely has a headache now," he fussed. "What's going on?"

Amy was tugging tight pressure garments up Ziva's uncooperative legs. "She needs some reflex management. Her nerves think she's in pain below the injury line. She isn't, but her brain is pissed. We'll get her on some blood pressure medication and maybe a little more Dilaudid. It'll pass." She reached over and rang for Anya, then stood back once the stockings were in place.

"Ok," she huffed to Gibbs. "Hand me the splint with the "R" on it. We'll do the right one first."

Amy had Gibbs fasten Ziva's leg into the splint that would keep her ankles and knees from deteriorating while the spinal shock wore off. They were lightweight—made of thermoformed plastic, soft felt straps, and sheepskin. Gibbs worked quickly and deftly, accustomed to dealing with inflexible materials.

Anya returned with Dr. Monroe, who ordered medications to stabilize Ziva once again.

"Let's get her sitting up for a little while," the doctor ordered gently, and began the process of adjusting her position—raising the head of the bed and lowering the foot.

Ziva moaned again. "Stop," she commanded softly.

Dr. Monroe patted her hand. "Ziva, sitting up will force the blood to your feet. It'll take the headache away. I know it's hard to get there, but can you be patient?"

She sniffed. A fat tear rolled down her cheek. "Ok," she said quietly.

Tony's heart sank; he'd never heard her so defeated, certainly not so docile.

"Almost there, Ninja. Then you can knock my teeth out if you want." He hoped the challenge would fire her up a bit, but she just closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing.

Finally Amy, Anya, and Dr. Monroe stepped aside. Ziva was upright, propped with pillows, swaddled in the sheets, and stabilized in her leg splints.

"How does that feel, Ziva?" Amy asked. "Any better."

Ziva kept her eyes clothes. "It's…it's…"

Tony opened his mouth to help, but Dr. Monroe waved him off. "Let her do it," she whispered.

"It's…mixed," she finally managed. "And ache."

"Dizzy," Gibbs translated. "She's dizzy."

"That'll stop," the doctor said smoothly. "What ache, Ziva?"

"Oh," was all she could reply. "Oh. Oh…_Up," _she managed. "Up. Need them up." She was panting and sweating, clearly in pain. "_Up up up_," she pleaded. "Please, up!"

Amy and Anya each grabbed an arm at the elbow and stacked pillows beneath them. Ziva gulped and sighed, trying to calm herself.

"Better now?" Amy wanted to know.

"Yes," she panted.

"It's because of the fractures in her vertebrae," Dr. Monroe offered Tony and Gibbs, who looked only a little stricken. "She wants her arms up to take the pressure off the muscles around the broken bones. She might decide to stay that way once we put her back down."

"How long can she sit up?" Tony wanted to know.

"Half an hour. Once her blood pressure comes down we'll reposition her. Sitting up at this stage in her injury can cause shearing—the skin stays put, but the bone underneath moves. It's another recipe for pressure sores."

Ziva's eyes were open and she scanned the room appreciatively through a haze of medication. She took in Gibbs and Tony, seated in hard plastic chairs, then Tim and Abby as they walked in, smelling of cold air and car exhaust. Abby had two big bags with her and she opened them deliberately where Ziva could see.

"I brought what you asked for," she gushed, and spread a soft, colorful blanket over her legs. Ziva sighed. She'd been cold and hadn't known it.

"Thanks," she offered awkwardly.

Abby also produced framed photographs of the team during their happiest events, a decorative hamsa engraved with a psalm for protection, a bottle of clear, scentless liquid, and a bag of cotton balls.

"This is witch hazel," she explained, and dampened a cotton ball with some of it. "It'll toughen your skin and keep sores away. The nurse said it was ok to go under your brace." Leaning forward, she matted down the padding around Ziva's jaw and dabbed it all along where it made contact with skin.

Ziva smiled a little. "Cold," she said. She meant the witch hazel, but Abby drew the blanket up over her propped arms.

"There," she sighed, and resumed the application on the other side.

She tossed the cotton ball and stroked Ziva's cheek. "Now you won't get rubs."

"Thanks," she offered again, mouth quirked up. "It's…nice."

"I know. My mom used it on me when I was a kid. I was always jumping out of trees or wrecking my bicycle, and they used old-fashioned Plaster of Paris back then. That stuff would eat your skin raw if you didn't do anything. I remember the first thing she would do when my dad brought me home from the hospital was get my favorite woobie and put witch hazel anyplace the cast would rub. It was nice after all those doctors and nurses."

"Yeah," Ziva echoed hollowly, and looked away.

Abby didn't let her slide. "You ok?"

"Yeah," she said again and paused. "Mothers," she explained.

Tony dropped his magazine. Gibbs shot him a look.

"Yours died when you were young?" Abby asked gently.

"Yeah. Killed. Ben Yehuda."

Abby pulled Ziva's hands into her own. She kneaded them gently, working across her palm and up her forearms. "My mom was sick. Cancer. I miss her so much."

"Me, too," Ziva confessed haltingly. "Miss her. And Papa…he…left."

Tim slid forward. Ziva's feeling of abandonment irked him—he wasn't angry with er with her, of course, but with Eli. "He knows we'll take good care of you," he explained. "He asked us to make sure you know he loves you."

She eyed him shyly. "He left," she repeated.

"He did," Gibbs cut in, "But we won't."

The team chorused in agreement. Ziva closed her eyes but one tear slipped through; it rolled down her cheek, intercepted by the feeding tube taped there.

"Please don't go," she begged. Her voice was small. "Please."

Abby squeezed her hands tighter. "We're not going anywhere," she urged. "We're all here right now. No one is going to just give up. No one is going to leave you."

. . . .

Gibbs poured a finger of bourbon into each of two mason jars and handed one to Tony.

"Ziva's tucked in for the night?"

Tony sipped and nodded. "Yeah. She passed out after her dinner and breathing treatment. I'll go back over in the morning to get her up, then I'll probably head to the Navy Yard for a few hours."

Gibbs nodded. "Since when, DiNozzo?"

He cocked his head. "What?"

"The two of you," he deadpanned. "Since when?"

"Since C.I.-Ray decided to break her heart. Again." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "Listen, Boss, Rule Twelve…"

"Is defunct," he supplied. "If she comes back to NCIS it won't be for a long time, nor will she be in the field."

Tony sipped his bourbon again. Gibbs took up a planer and began to take the bend out of a one-by-four. The stayed for a long time like that; one working, the other drinking and quietly humming a Sinatra tune.

"So," Tony finally ventured again. "Does that mean we have your blessing?"

Gibbs threw the plank on a pile under the sawhorses and stepped into his personal space, puffing his chest and throwing his shoulders back.

"It means that if you screw this up, I get to tear you apart. I will skin you alive. I will tear off your balls and stuff them down your throat. I will reassign you to Azerbaijan."

Tony gulped, heart pumping. None of this was a farce; these threats would never go empty.

"And yeah, it also means I'm ok with it. But if you ask Eli David to give her away at your wedding, I will shoot that bastard and get away with it."

He poured himself another drink. Tony smoothed his sweater over his chest.

"Ok, Boss. So you're cool with it. Thanks."

"Get the real estate section out of the paper."

"Why?"

"Because, DiNozzo, you need to move. Is your place ADA compliant?"

Tony shrugged. "It's an elevator building."

"Does it have an accessible kitchen? Bathroom? Parking lot?"

Tony shook his head.

"Then start looking. I give you two months before Walter Reed cuts her loose, and she'd better have a place to go. I'm putting a ramp out front, but she'll need someone around the house to help her. You should be prepared to pay for that."

Tony didn't open the paper. "What was in those envelopes David gave you?"

"Dunno. Didn't open them yet," he replied, but reached for the top one. He tore it open to find Ziva's birth certificate and a notarized English translation of it, her IDF and Mossad photo IDs, and an official list of her awards and accolades, issued by the Defense Minister of Israel.

"What's this for?" DiNozzo wondered.

"Benefits," Gibbs snorted. "Disability, retirement pay, long-term care. She's entitled." He held out a letter detailing the monies she would receive if she was injured or disabled. Gibbs reminded himself to call the U.S.-based eight hundred number on the bottom of the paper.

The second envelope contained photographs dating back to Ziva's infancy. Her birth photo was there, and they mused aloud that she'd been a beautiful baby. Pictures detailed her toddlerhood in birthdays and holidays. Gibbs paused of one taken in the hours before the start of Rosh Hashanah; Ziva was three and beautifully surly in her holiday dress and shiny shoes. She was clutching a stuffed cat and staring at her father, who had his hands on his hips and a stern look on his face.

"He was scolding her," Gibbs said softly. "He wanted her to put the toy away." He shook his head, rueful. "She was barely more than a baby and he was giving her orders. What an ass."

Tony took it from him and brought it close to his face. "You didn't ever tell Kelly to leave her dolls or toys at home?"

Gibbs snorted. "It was me against two redheads, DiNozzo. You think I stood a chance?"

"Not a prayer," he scoffed.

They rifled through the photos, pausing to study images of Ziva in her school uniform, Ziva with her beautiful mother, Ziva with Ari and Tali and Ziva, ten and coltish, on the beach in Eilat. The last one was of Ziva in her IDF uniform. She was standing at the stove in Eli's Tel Aviv apartment, preparing breakfast for Tali who sat sleepily at the table in the foreground. Ziva's curls were wild about her face, which was still round, babyish. Gibbs flipped it over. It was dated 1997.

"She was fifteen,' he muttered.

Tony whistled through his teeth. "So? He taught her to shoot when she was seven."

Gibbs pointed to the insignia on her jacket. "She was serving illegally. You can't volunteer until age eighteen." He threw back the last of his bourbon. "How much do you want to bet that David drafted her before she finished grammar school? Like she didn't have enough on her plate after her mother died, so he signed her up for the army before she could drive."

"Legally," Tony supplied. "Her mother taught her how to drive when she was twelve."

"It's not right," Gibbs spat. "And I'm beginning to blame Eli David for this as much as I blame…"

"Me?" Tony squeaked.

"Myself," he answered quietly. "I mostly blame myself."

Tony shrugged again. "You didn't take away her childhood, Boss. You didn't send her on a suicide mission. You didn't give up on her. And you'd better not do it now."

"Never said I was," he grouched back. "But this is your show. You keep stepping up the way you did today and I won't have to worry about her being in good hands."

He nodded at the offhand compliment. "I don't want her to think that she's damaged or that I'm afraid to touch her. But damn, Boss, I grabbed her leg and it was like holding onto a lamb shank. It was a little creepy. And what's worse is that she didn't even register that I was forcing her knees to bend. I felt like Alexander Supertramp. You know, _Into the Wild, _when he shoots the moose and the heart…"

Gibbs shot him a hard look.

"I mean, I felt so sorry for hurting her, even though I wasn't really hurting her. It was strange."

"It was what you had to do."

"I hope it gets easier."

"I hope you hand me that four-by-four. In fact, I hop you cut that four-by-four into thirty inch segments before you hand it to me."

Tony smirked, pulled out the chop saw, and peeled off his sweater. It would feel good to blister his hands tonight.


	5. Sweetness Follows

**Thank you so much, everyone, for the kind reviews! Juli, TL, (), intimidating…I can't name everyone I couldn't message personally, so if you're not named it's not because I don't love and appreciate what you have to say, but because RL got in the way. Xo from The Mecha. Also, this chapter is a marathon. #stuckinthehousealone #allday**

_I always knew this altogether thunder_

_ was lost in our little lives._

_ Oh, but sweetness follows._

_ -REM, "Sweetness Follows."_

Tony and Gibbs finished the support beams quickly and stacked them with the other cut lumber. Gibbs poured them each one last finger of bourbon and tossed the bottle in the recycling bin. He sketched a rough diagram in the sawdust that settled on the workbench.

"We need a twelve-inch run for every one-inch rise, so we'll have to start the ramp at the end of the sidewalk if it's going to get her in the house. The stair risers on the front porch are seven and three-quarter inches each."

"Three steps," Tony ciphered. "And the step up between the porch and the front foyer…we're talking about a thirty foot ramp. We'll have to build it all the way back to the public sidewalk. Are you sure you want to commit to that, Boss? It's a lot of work and a lot of change to the landscape."

"I want all my kids to be able to visit me, DiNozzo." He swept the sawdust off the table with a wisk-broom, brushing over the envelopes from Eli David. One slid off the back of the workbench and landed among the dust with a soft _whoomp_. He bent and retrieved it, tossing it back on the surface. The photographs spilled out, along with a piece of paper they hadn't noticed before.

Tony scooped it up. "A note?" He unfolded it, read, and thrust it at Gibbs. "It's a note, all right. Just not the kind I expected."

Gibbs held it before him and squinted, not bothering with his glasses. He read it, turned it over in disbelief, and read it again.

"It's for Ziver," he said cautiously. "It's to pay for anything she needs." He handed it back. "But not the house," he warned. "That's all you."

"I can't believe he just handed off a check for fifty grand in an envelope of her baby pictures." Tony scowled. "What if we tossed it?"

"He knew we'd be looking," Gibbs offered softly. "And he knew we'd need it. Taking care of her is going to be expensive—wheelchairs, nurses, physical therapy, medication. Getting her to Bethesda cost NCIS about two grand."

Tony nodded, his bout with the plague had cost about a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Two months, minimum, in rehab would be more than twice that. Sure, some would be covered by NCIS, some by Mossad, but that coverage might be limited. He'd have to talk to his accountant.

"Should I tell Ziva about the money?"

Gibbs shook his head, mouth pursed with bourbon. "No," he said after he swallowed. "Let me take care of that for now. Get her as healthy as possible. And take care of yourself; she needs you."

"Then I'm going to bed. Night, Boss."

Gibbs nodded again and he bounced up the stairs feeling lighter than he had in days.

. . . .

A cold rain had begun to fall before Gibbs and Tony finished their morning run. It picked up as Tony drove across Bethesda to Walter Reed, and became a teeming downpour by the time he reached the seventh floor neurological unit.

Justine met him in the hallway. She looked a little irritated. "Be careful," she warned him. "She's having a bad day. The storm moved right on into her room. "

He didn't know what that meant.

"There's a lot of neuro-muscular activity happening today," she explained. "The nerves we saw waking up yesterday are giving her hell today, sparking all over the place. It's scary but not dangerous."

Tony sidled through the door and found Ziva in her favorite position—on her right side, facing the door.

"Hey," he said softly. "The nurse told me you were having a bad day."

She looked at him miserably and he realized what she meant. Ziva was trembling all over; her eyes, hands, and trunk muscles were all alight with twitches. She grunted in reply.

"You ok?"

"No," she said tearfully.

"What can I do?"

"Nothing," she squeaked. Her breath caught in her throat and Justine was there in an instant, lowering an oxygen mask onto her face.

"She wanted to stay awake to see you," she explained. "Dr. Monroe started offering muscle relaxants at four and sedatives at five. She refused until she got to say good morning to you. She was dealing pretty well until about seven-thirty."

Tony was aghast. "You let her shake like this for four hours? Why didn't you call me?"

"Because Ziva told us not to. Regardless of whatever this is, she's still an adult and capable of making her own decisions."

He nodded dully. "You're right. Can we give her the medication now?"

"Yes," Justine agreed too quickly. "Dr. Monroe left the orders to push them whenever she was ready. I'll call the pharmacy. You take a minute with her while I'm gone."

He picked up her hands only to have them tense and snap in his grip. He let go, shocked.

Ziva scowled at him. "Don't touch," she muttered darkly.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes. Pinching." She closed her eyes, but the lids twitched on. "Hard to look."

"I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable. I think the medication will make it better. You can get some rest then."

"Don't sorry," she shot back. "Rule."

Tony smiled. "I know it's a rule, but I break rules. Like Rule Twelve."

She eyed him shakily and drew a muffled breath. "Gibbs…?"

"He isn't mad. He said he gives us his blessing."

"_B'racha_," she muttered, and coughed harshly.

The nurse and an aide rushed in, suctioned her airways and delivered two medications into the IV port in Ziva's left arm.

"Say goodnight," Justine whispered to him, and he kissed Ziva's cheek.

"Go work," She ordered. "I am…tired." Her lids stopped their twitching and slid closed. She sighed in relief and began to drift.

"She'll be out for the rest of the day." Justine capped the syringes and tossed them in the sharps bin. "You should go to work. Get out of here for a few hours. Dr. Monroe ordered some exams while Ziva is sedated."

"What kind of exams? Should I stay?"

She shook her head emphatically. "They're nerve tests involving needles and electrical current. Dr. Monroe wants to see where her nervous system is lighting up and what we can do to encourage growth without episodes like this morning. The tests are violent and painful—that's why we waited until we could give her the heavy stuff."

Tony scratched his head and nodded. "What's she on?"

"Horse tranquilizers, basically, and a little bit of Dilaudid to mellow out her synapses. Anything stronger and we'd have to re-intubate. They might, anyway, if she makes them nervous when the test is underway."

"You're sure I shouldn't stay?"

Justine shook her head again. "No, you should to go work and let her rest. Come back late this afternoon—the tests will be done and she'll be awake. She'll probably be up for some company then."

"Ok," he sighed. "I'll go, but you have all my numbers; if she sneezes I want to know about it."

She mock-saluted him. "Yes, Senior Field Agent DiNozzo. Now get out of here so Ziva can sleep."

He tugged on his rain shell and jabbed the elevator button. Paperwork sounded good about now.

. . . .

"Tony, are you really doing your own field reports? Isn't there a newbie around here to type that for you?"

Tony heaved a theatrical sigh and leaned back in his chair. "I need to keep my hands busy, McGoo. Don't you have beeswax to mind?"

Tim's head bobbed on his skinny neck. "Yeah. Maybe I'll go see what Abby is up to."

"Maybe you should just do that," Tony agreed sharply, and a rough hand met the back of his head.

"Can it, DiNozzo."

He jumped out of his chair. "Dead Marine?"

"No. And if there was I'd leave you here. What if we're in Rock Creek Park and you get a call from Bethesda?"

He'd only been half-serious when he'd asked for a case. "I'd be screwed," he said honestly.

"Yeah, that's why you get to park your ass in that chair." He dropped a fat file on his desk. "This went cold a month ago. Sort it out and get what you can down to Abby."

He didn't have much of a choice. "On it, Boss," he retorted vaguely, and saved the file he was working on.

Gibbs started in on a fresh coffee. "How's Ziva?"

"Bad morning, Boss. They gave her a bunch of sedatives and muscles relaxers and took her for some tests. I'm going back over after work."

"That sucks," he said blandly.

"It does." He shuddered. "She was twitching all over; Justine said her nerves were going haywire."

Gibbs threw another file on Tony's desk. "Painful?"

He shrugged. "Guess so. Didn't want me to touch her."

"Bet that's not the first time, DiNozzo."

Tony took the ribbing without affront. "Thanks, Boss," he sniped.

"Yep. I'll head over with you later. Why haven't you taken that down to Abby yet?"

Abby was steaming an old undershirt for fingerprints when he got down there. She took one look at the folder and winked at him. "Busy work, huh?"

"Boss is trying to keep me distracted. Ziva had a rough morning and a bunch of tests today."

Her lower lip came out in a pout. "That's terrible. Poor Ziva. What are they testing for?"

"Nerve function. They want to see where she's getting signals from and what they can do to make more."

"Yeah, I looked into rehab for her. They should get her up and moving as soon as possible. It'll prevent things like osteoporosis, blood clots, contractures, digestive issues, urinary tract infections…"

"I got it, Abbs. I think they need her a little more stable first."

"Are you doing her stretches with her?" She sipped pointedly at a Caf-Pow.

"Yes, I am," Tony groused back.

"Good. Timmy has some top-secret research he's working on for her. He won't tell me what it's about."

"Because you're a blabbermouth." He shook a printer page at her. "You're supposed to call these guys. Something about a cold murder case at LeJeune."

Abby rolled her eyes. "Wow, you really _are_ on busy work. I hope they don't get a new case this week. He might make you buy lunch. Or get him coffee."

"Ugh, me too." He pulled a face. "You coming to the hospital with us tonight?"

"Yeah, I want to ask the nurses what Ziva can wear besides a gown. She's cold all the time."

Tony was taken aback. "I didn't know that."

She's from the desert, Tony. It's _October._ She's always cold by _October_. Don't you pay attention?"

"Guess not." He snapped. "Guess I'm just a terrible friend."

"A terrible boyfriend," Abby agreed with a smile, and hugged him hard. "It's ok, Tony. She'll be ok. You're not a failure—I'm just teasing you."

He nodded against her shoulder. "I know," he mumbled. "I'm a little rattled by what's going on. I mean, who would expect Ziva to get hurt like this? She's a ninja, a markswoman, a spy, an assassin. And now she's…like an infant. It's so strange. It's wrong."

Abby backed off and shook his shoulders a little. "It is what it is," she said firmly. "We need to be her ninjas and spies and assassins now." She softened a bit. "I know you're a rock, Tony. You can handle this."

He stood a little straighter. "I can," he agreed, and shrugged. "Call those guys and let me know what happens. I got reports to type."

His cell rang and he answered it with a jerk. "DiNozzo."

It was Gibbs. "Vance wants a statement from you."

"About what happened…?" He didn't need to finish the question.

"Yeah. Get your ass up there."

He hung up and jammed it back in his pocket. "Vance rang. Wants my statement about Ziva's accident."

. . . .

Vance sat behind his desk, fingers tented, left ankle cocked over his right knee. "So you did not see the assailant when you swept the scene for Jantzen?"

"No, I told you Bolling PD think he was burglarizing one of the residences when we pulled up. I didn't see DeCroo until after he's already assaulted Agent David. I tracked him thinking he was Jantzen. I identified myself, but he kept running, so I picked him up for fleeing federal officers."

Vance nodded slowly, eyes on the report on his desk. Tim typed it, he was sure. "DeCroo is mentally ill?"

"Yeah, Schizoaffective. He was on the streets for months, unmedicated, hungry. He stole money to buy food."

"And he beat Agent David with a length of galvanized plumbing pipe? Where did he get that?"

"Said it found it on the ground. Couldn't say where. He's paranoid; thought Ziv—Agent David—was going to hurt him."

"Has anyone spoken to David about what happened?"

Tony raised his eyebrows. "No, we haven't. She's been in and out. In pain, unstable, having mini-seizures and tremors. I haven't even thought about it," he finished lamely.

"Grade Two concussion? She probably doesn't remember."

"She's aphasic. They think she suffered a mild traumatic brain injury."

Vance nodded again. "If you can get a statement, please do, but don't pressure her. If she can't remember then don't force it."

"Deal," Tony sighed, glad he wouldn't have to force Ziva to relive the trauma of her injuries. Vance dismissed him with a nod to the door, and he made his way out.

The director's voice caught him in the threshold. "Agent DiNozzo, I know you're protective of your partner. Please let me know should you want to take some time off to be with her."

"I'll think about that. Thank you." Fearing Vance would ask too many questions, he left quickly, yanking open the door and stepping onto the catwalk over the bullpen.

Tim was hunched forward in his chair, scowling hard at the monitor in front of him.

"Whatcha doing, McNerd?"

"Research," he said without looking up.

"Is this the classified project you're working on for Ziva? Abby told me about it. Said you were building her a bionic spinal cord."

Tim blushed. "It's not funny, Tony. I'm checking into the newest research from the U.S. and Europe. I'm data-gathering on some experimental therapies, then I'll talk to Dr. Monroe and Amy. Does Ziva have a physical therapist yet?"

"No, she's still pretty sick."

"Well she should. Tell Dr. Monroe you want to get her started on a core strength program ASAP."

"Can you make the tremors stop first, McBessie Blount?" He didn't mean to sound so waspish.

Tim looked up with a start. "Spasms or neurological activity?"

"Neuro."

"Isn't she on anti-seizure medication?"

"Yeah, but her nervous system lit up this morning and it only took the edge off."

"Was Dr. Monroe concerned?"

Tony huffed impatiently. "If she wasn't, would they be doing tests with electricity and needles, McWhy?"

Tim was unphased, as usual, by the outburst. "Just trying to get a complete picture of her status, Tony. The more I know, the more research I can do."

Tony hung his head. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "It's what sidekicks do."

. . . .

Ziva was sleeping hard when he returned, wearing an oxygen mask he didn't recognize.

"She ok?" He worried to Anya. "What's with the new oh-two?"

"It's a sealed mask. She needs all the oxygen she can get right now. The tests were hard and we had to put her on BiPAP for an hour this afternoon."

"What's that?"

"Forced respiration without intubation. She fought it like crazy, so we took if off as soon as her SATs came back up. She's holding her own."

"She's not twitching anymore."

Anya smiled. "We got her balanced out on a new cocktail of Dilaudid, diuretics, and muscle relaxers on top of the pain medication. She's doing much better now."

He nodded and stroked her arm. "My friend says she should be in physical therapy by now."

Anya nodded. "They'll be up soon for an evaluation. We couldn't release her to PT without the nerve test results."

"And?"

"Dr. Monroe is reading them tonight. She'll talk to you in the morning. Can I get you anything?"

"I'm ok. I'll just hang here for a bit. See if she wakes up."

Abby, flush from the cold and dripping from the rain, grabbed Anya's arm at the door. "Ziva's always cold," she blurted, panting. "What can I dress her in?"

She smiled. "Nothing that covers her ports or the catheter, nothing over the brace yet. For under it she'll want something to wick away moisture; she sweats a lot. It's how her body is dealing with the reflexes she doesn't know are happening."

"So like jog tops? With short sleeves?"

"That'll work."

Abby nodded excitedly. "I'll get some for her tomorrow. How will I keep her legs warm?"

"Blankets. I try to keep her wrapped up but they get tangled when we roll her. Bring another one from home—a bigger one."

Abby jotted a few notes in her tablet computer. "Thanks," she sighed. "I really want her to be comfortable."

"I know; you're welcome. Need anything else?"

She waved a full Caf-Pow. "I'm set."

She perched on the arm of the recliner where Tony sat, elbows on his knees. "How ya doing?"

"Better now. Anything on that cold case?"

"It's called 'cold' for a reason, Tony. Ziva's doing better? Test results tonight?"

"No, Dr. Monroe will call us in tomorrow morning."

"And then get her into PT," she finished for him, and sucked hard on the straw.

"Yep," he sighed.

Ziva began to stir. Her cheek twitched at the edge of the mask and her eyes fluttered open. She looked steadily at Tony and Abby, who smiled back at her.

"Hey, Ziva," Abby cooed, and leaned over the edge of the bed. "Doing any better now? Tony said you had a rough morning."

Ziva blinked and tried to collect herself.

"Let's see if we can get that mask off," Tony said, and pressed the nurse call button.

Anya swept, exchanged the sealed mask for a regular one, suctioned her airways, and left again.

Abby grabbed both of her hands. "Better?"

"Yes," she rasped.

Tony took a breath. "Ziva, do you know how you got to be in the hospital?"

She thought for a minute. "Shot?"

"No, we were down at Bolling, on a guy who killed a Marine in a barfight. Another man thought you were after him, so he jumped you with a piece of heavy pipe. Do you remember that?"

She stared hard at nothing. "No."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. Abby stroked her cheek. Ziva was impassive, thinking.

"I know it's a lot to take in," Abby apologized. "But just let Tony and I take care of you, ok? I mean, you know Tony. He'll walk across a desert of broken glass for you."

"Over the hottest coals," he cut in.

"He'd eat light bulbs."

"I'd fight a grizzly to the death."

"He'd tame a falcon and teach it to retrieve the newspaper," Abby giggled.

"I'd get the plague all over again."

Ziva gave the ceiling a watery smile. "I know," she sighed. "Tony is…good."

"Yeah," Abby agreed. "He is good."

"So you," Ziva added. "You…got…the things."

Abby beamed. "I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be happy. It sucks that you're here. I just want to make it better."

Ziva swallowed with some difficulty. "Over," she begged. "Need…over."

Tony rang for Anya again, and all three of them worked quickly to get Ziva on her side and propped with cushions. It did little; she moaned and closed her eyes.

Anya suctioned her airways again. "Where does it hurt, Ziva? Can you tell me?"

She moaned again and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "Hurts…"

"Where?" Tony demanded. "Tell us, Ziva, so we can help."

The words weren't there and she began to panic, whimpering and squeezing her eyes closed. "Up," she finally cried. "It's…up."

Anya looked at Abby, who held up her hands in a gesture of utter helplessness.

"Her arms hurt," Tony realized aloud. "That's why she said _up_ yesterday, because her arms hurt." He took both her hands in his; they were stiff, unyielding. Her wrists contracted when he tried to prop her arms on a pillow and she yelped in pain.

Anya's eyes went wide. "I'm calling down to Dr. Monroe right now. She needs to see this before I can do anything."

She rushed out, almost colliding with Gibbs in the doorway.

"What's going on?" He demanded.

"Ziva's in pain," Abby cried. "Her arms hurt and when Tony tried to help she yelled!"

Gibbs laid his arm around her shoulders. "Ok, let's get the doctor in here. Ziver? It's ok. We're going to get some help for you."

Ziva had her eyes closed and made no indication that she'd heard him. Tony stroked her cheek and shushed her gently, feeling useless and stupid.

Dr. Monroe was there in seconds. "Ziva? You're having pain? Describe it for me."

"Bad," she stuttered. "It's…bad." Her hands closed into fists.

"I'm going to check out your hands and arms. Anya told me that's where the pain is."

"Ok."

Dr. Monroe probed gently and declared it was contractures. "She'll need to have her hands splinted," she explained.

Abby chewed her nails. "Why are her muscles doing this? I've read that contractures don't set in this soon after injury."

The doctor was already ordering medication and paging orthopedics. "Ziva came to us in fantastic physical shape. Now her muscles are being used against her and it's quite painful. Her legs are a long-term care issue, but her arms and hands are sub-acute. If we get her splinted so the joints stay straight, I'll bet they pain will fade and she'll improve in a day, maybe two."

Tony needed clarification. "So this is a muscle issue, not a seizure issue?"

The doctor nodded. "Those nerves are awake and sending signals like crazy. It might seem scary now, but she'll be punching you in the eye by the weekend. You wait and see."

"I'd love that," he said honestly.

Gibbs smirked. "Me, too."

Amy showed up. "Got your page," she said to Dr. Monroe. "Came as quick as I could."

"You're good," Tony praised, and she shook her head.

"Wait until Ziva is threatening your life for bringing her here. Then we'll talk about my being _good_."

He chuckled and Gibbs raised a brow over his coffee cup.

Abby stepped forward, eager to help.

"Hold her wrists in a passive position while I set up," Amy ordered gently, and Abby complied.

"Ow," Ziva complained, but she didn't realize what was happening until Abby gently pressed the felt separators between her fingers and strapped down her thumb.

"No," she protested. "No. No."

Dr. Monroe rubbed her shoulder, scratching gently with her fingernails over the hospital gown. "Ziva, it's going to take the pain away. Can you be patient?"

"No!" Ziva cried back. "No! No! _Nonononono!"_

"Ok," Amy agreed. "We won't do the other one so you can compare, ok?" She fastened the remaining straps that would hold her hand and wrist immobile. "Dr. Monroe and I will leave for a few minutes and you can decide on your own. If it's not better, we'll take it off and never do it again, ok?"

"Go," she spat.

Amy gave Abby, Gibbs, and Tony a loaded glance, held up one hand to indicate _five minutes_, and left.

Tony cupped Ziva's cheek and brushed his thumb over her lashes. They were wet with tears.

"It's ok," he murmured in her ear. "I know it's hard to feel helpless." He soothed her with his hands and whispered nonsense.

Ziva cried in earnest for the first time since she'd gotten hurt; all the anger, loss, vulnerability, dependence, and sadness rushed out at once and she sobbed like a child. Abby, almost in tears herself, stood close to Tony and stroked long, gentle lines from the bottom of Ziva's brace down over her right hip.

Five minutes passed; Tony whispering in her ear, Abby petting her slowly, sisterly. Gibbs paced and drank his coffee.

Ziva relaxed little by little, and sniffed when she saw that Amy and Dr. Monroe had come back.

"Other one," she sighed. "Feels…more..."

"Feels better," Tony translated, and expected a stern look from Dr. Monroe. She glanced at him compassionately instead.

"Let's do this," Amy said, and Abby stepped in yet again to help, explaining each action this time so Ziva would not panic again.

Dr. Monroe checked the splints to make sure the fit was correct and the straps not too tight.

"Hey, Ziva, I know how tough you are. I know how super-capable you were before you got hurt. Do you know why I keep asking you to be patient?"

"No," she replied morosely.

"Because I know you can be independent again. If I thought you were going to be this way forever I'd tell you to get used to it."

Ziva's eyebrows went up. "Oh," was all she could say.

"Yeah," Amy chimed in. "Dr. Monroe is pretty direct. She'll tell you what's what. If she thought this was the end of the line she would've drugged you up and sent you home."

She scowled at Tony, "Not…with him," she sputtered.

"Worse," Amy commiserated, and pointed to Gibbs. "With that guy. He hasn't said three words since I've know him. How awful would that be?"

Gibbs smirked and Ziva quirked her mouth up. "Bad," she agreed.

"So hang in there. We'll work with you and get you out of here soon. Just…"

"Patient," Ziva supplied.

Abby resumed her delicate massage, running her hand down Ziva's side over and over again.

"Abby?" She called softly.

"Hm?"

"That…that…is…nice." She stammered.

Another flurry of activity began. Dr. Monroe pulled her pen out of her pocket and turned it cap-first. "You feeling that, Ziva? You feel Abby touching you now?"

"It is nice," she pouted back.

"Do you feel me poking here? Dr. Monroe prodded with the pen the whole way down Ziva's side.

"Yes," she replied to each poke. Sensation stopped at the bottom of her iliac crest. "Abby?" She requested as the doctor moved away. "More."

Abby complied. "Ziva! You didn't have that sensation yesterday. It's so great! Yay! Aren't you happy?"

Ziva, comforted, hummed and her eyes slid closed.

Dr. Monroe turned to Tony and Gibbs. "The spinal shock is wearing off. If her pain is managed she can be evaluated by a physical therapist tomorrow afternoon." She checked her watch. "It's late, and I need to re-read her nerve scans. I'll be back in tomorrow morning, first thing." She gave them a thumbs up and left.

Tony blew out a breath. "Hell of a day, huh Boss?"

Gibbs kissed Abby's cheek, then Ziva's. "Yeah," he agreed flatly.

Tony's mood sank. "Boss, don't tell me not to get my hopes up. I can't take it tonight."

"Wasn't going to, DiNozzo," he snapped. "I was going to ask you what you wanted from How Lee's. Take out is on me."

He smiled. "The usual, thanks."

Gibbs nodded and threw Ziva's blanket at him; it had been pushed aside in all the commotion. "Cover her up, dammit. She's cold."


	6. Promise

__**Thank you and thank you and thank you. Sorry this took so long; holiday on the fast approach. Thank you. You are still and always made of awesome.**

_With the ramparts built so high,_

_ and the soldiers stuck inside._

_ But this will fall away with time;_

_ if you promise to be kind._

_ -Mirah, "Promise."_

Tony found Gibbs not in the basement but on the front porch, taking measurements and marking spots in the yard with orange flags on short, wooden stakes. He'd have to cut away part of the flowerbeds, which were untended—weedy and edgeless—to make room for Ziva's ramp.

He looked up as Tony swished through the wet grass. "Why aren't you with Ziver?"

"She's asleep," he shrugged. "Hard day. Tomorrow should be better."

Gibbs just grunted and drew a sharp line where he planned to extend the railing.

"Give me that mallet," He ordered, and positioned a stake at the edge of the sidewalk. Tony held out the rawhide mallet handle-first, but he didn't take it right away. Instead he sat back on his heels and eyed him suspiciously.

"Why did Ziver get so pissed when he tried to strap her hands down?"

Tony stammered, shoulders wound up by his ears. "She, um," he started. "She doesn't like to be restrained," he offered lamely. _Because of Somalia_, he didn't say, but Gibbs heard it anyways.

"Why didn't you say something?"

Tony swayed harder and dropped the mallet into Gibbs' hand. "I didn't even think about it. I thought she was panicking because of the pain, not because she hates to have her hands messed with." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and it stood up, wild. "I'll tell them tomorrow. Hopefully there's another option."

Gibbs picked up the mallet and stake and stood. "Let me in on these things, DiNozzo." He hammered the stake into the ground; it marked where a support beam would be drilled and anchored with concrete.

"Yeah," was all he could say. He stared off into the darkening street.

"C'mon," Gibbs said quietly. "Let's get something to eat. We got plywood sheets to cut down and treat with waterproofing."

. . . .

Ziva had to wait ten long minutes between checks because she couldn't ring for the nurses herself. In the daylight it wasn't too bad; someone was usually there to keep her company until a nurse came with meds or fluids or extra pillows. At night, when everyone was gone and the drugs wore off, it seemed like a long, dark age before someone came to see her.

_I will not cry_, she told herself. She'd done enough of that with Tony and Abby. _I will not_. She tried to count down from ten but her head was aching and it was hard to focus. Maybe it was because it was dark and she was alone, or maybe it was because the Marine next door cried out in a nightmare, but one tear slipped onto the pillowcase, and then another, and another. She sniffled and suddenly her throat was blocked and the air disappeared. An alarm on the computer terminal began to sound.

Rita, the night nurse, rushed in flipped on the light, and cleared her airway in a matter of seconds. In the narrow fluorescent glow she saw the tear tracks on Ziva's face.

"Baby girl," she cooed. "Tell Sister Rita why you're crying."

She sputtered and choked on her tears, unable to get herself under control, unable or unwilling to find the words to say how sad she was, or how lonely. Rita dragged a chair over to the beside and soothed her for a minute, then tugged her hair out from under her brace and braided it, securing the end with an elastic Abby left on the table. Ziva sobbed on, embarrassed.

"You want Sister Rita to call someone for you? That cute boyfriend of yours?"

"No."

"How 'bout Mommy or Daddy? Can I call them?"

Ziva thought for a minute, sniffling. "Ok," she acquiesced.

"Is their number on the desk?"

"Mm," was all she could reply. A fresh wave of tears struck, and one coursed across the bridge of her nose. Rita wiped it away with a tissue, cleared her airway again and left to call Gibbs.

He was awake, of course, and came straight away, sitting down in the abandoned chair and setting a cup of coffee on the table.

"Hey," he said quietly.

She crumbled and Rita had come in to suction her again. Propping one long brown hand on her hip, she posed, feigning annoyance.

"You know what, baby girl? I'm going to just wait right here until you're done crying. The minute I leave, your head clogs up and I gotta rush back in here to clear you out." She paused and wagged a finger at Gibbs. "And I expected a man named Leroy Jethro Gibbs to be a smooth cat. Maybe plays blues guitar, smokes Kools. Your daddy is just an old jarhead."

Gibbs smirked. Ziva snorted and smiled tearfully.

Rita glanced at the clock. "Well, I'm glad this roughneck is here; we need to roll your little behind again. Ready?"

Without waiting for an answer, she scooped Ziva up and rolled her onto her left side. Gibbs slid a cushion behind her back and smoothed out her gown.

"All right," she sighed. "You need to get to sleep. PT is going to roll up here tomorrow morning and wonder why you can't keep your eyes open." She administered another round of medication and Ziva closed her eyes obediently.

"You staying?" Rita whispered to Gibbs, who gestured towards the cot that DiNozzo crashed on for two nights.

"I'll be checking in," she reminded him sternly, and left. Gibbs sighed, kissed Ziva's sticky cheek, and sat, certain he'd spend the night waiting for the sun to rise.

. . . .

DiNozzo woke him and he sat up with a huff, wiping his eyes and straightening his shirt.

"Morning, Boss. Why are you here so early?" He smoothed a hand over Ziva's cheek. Rita had rolled her onto her back half an hour ago so that Justine could start her morning routine without having to reposition her.

"Got called in," he replied easily, expecting Tony to be offended or jealous. Instead he nodded understandingly; he'd needed Gibbs to be his father enough times to know why he hadn't been phoned.

Justine crept in, catlike. "I'm doing to do the nebulizer and diffusion now. Pnce that finishes you can help me give her a bath."

Tony agreed and Gibbs took that as his cue to cut out. "I'll be in the bullpen," he reported. "Tell me what the docs say when I get back."

Tony figured it was his hall pass, and waved, smiling. Justine returned with a a basin of hot water and an armload of towels. She taught him how to keep Ziva warm while they bathed her and how to swab her mouth to prevent tooth decay. Ziva was passive, but watched both of them with wary interest. He wiped her face with a soft cloth while Justine peeled off the splints to wash her hands and arms.

"Ow," she complained quietly when her wrists contracted.

He dabbed at her ears and looked for redness that meant pressure sores. "I know," he whispered. "Remember what Dr. Monroe said?"

"Patient," she mumbled. Her eyes were clear and steady.

"Right," he agreed, and smiled. She returned the gesture.

Justine broke into their brief romantic second. "Ziva, we're going to take care of you legs now. I'm going to take off the splints and we're going to leave them off because PT is coming up when we're done."

"Ok," she agreed happily, and strained her eyes to watch what was happening. Tony pressed the button that sat her up a little and she smiled her thanks at him.

Justine released the hook-and-loop straps that held her legs steady and her knees stiffened almost immediately. Tony's eyebrows went up, but she shook her head. "She's fine, just a little stiff. The braces are doing their job."

He grabbed Ziva's hand, and she took slow, even breaths until Justine finished and spread a clean, dry sheet over her.

"Ok, we're just going to change your Foley and we'll be all set. Tony, do you want to step out while I take care of this? Maybe grab another coffee?"

Ziva sucked in a harsh breath and he declined.

"Maybe just cover her up while you do it? She doesn't want me to leave. She can be…squirrely about being touched."

The nurse just shrugged. "Sure. Let me get a sterile field and you can stick around."

"Thank you," Ziva faltered and he tightened his grip on her hand. The muscles in her forearm twitched and he massaged them into submission.

"It's fine. And we're going to talk to the doctor about using fewer restraints on you. I know you really don't like it."

She blinked at him and gaped, eyes wide. "Ok," she said slowly, and flinched when she felt Justine release her drainage line.

Tony was startled. "She felt that?"

Justine shook her head. "Not really, it's more pressure than sensation. She probably feels it up in her belly."

Ziva was gritting her teeth in fear and discomfort, breathing harshly through her nose. He rubbed her cheeks and kissed her nose but she refused to be distracted until the sheet came back down and the nurse stood up fully.

"And now we wait for Dr. Monroe and the people from PT. Let me know if there's anything I can do in the meantime."

She made her exit and Ziva's heart rate and blood pressure came down instantly.

"Ok?" Tony asked her gently.

She frowned, frustrated. "I…" she began. "I…do not…"

"_Do not_ what?" Tony prodded and she growled, low and guttural. She wanted to lash out—to strike or kick something, but her stupid, useless body would not obey her commands. She settled for grinding her molars.

Tony brushed his mouth over hers and she startled, surprised. "If you punch anyone," he breathed in her ear, "make sure it's someone who deserves it."

"You," she jabbed, but he just smiled.

"Punch me? What did I do?"

"Let them…hands…me."

"I know," he apologized. "I should've spoken up for you but you were so upset and in so much pain that I just wanted to make it stop. Let's work out another option today, ok?"

Dr. Monroe came in, smiling sunnily, trailed by Amy and a woman they hadn't met yet. She had moppish, curly hair tucked into a grey baseball cap and blue eyes behind rimless glasses. Her skin was pale but she smiled, friendly.

"Ziva, this is Devorah, you're physical therapist. She's very excited to work with you."

Ziva smiled and worked her mouth, but couldn't find any appropriate way to greet her.

"First things first," Dr. Monroe declared. "We did a bunch of tests yesterday and now we get to go over the results."

She pulled a series of color photographs out of a folder and held them up so everyone could see. "Ziva, this is your nervous system. All these lines send messages back and forth between your brain and the rest of you. Look at the ones above your hips; see how bright they are on the black paper? That means that they're prepped to send and receive signals."

"Ok," Ziva replied, blinking. She glanced at Tony to convey that she understood what the doctor was saying.

"The ones below your hips are a little darker; they're not quite lighting up the way your upper body is. But what matters is that they're not completely dark."

Ziva swallowed. "Cannot…"

Devorah jumped in, easy and casual. "You want to know why you can't move?"

"Yes."

While Devorah's ballcap bore the emblem of the Pittsburgh Steelers, her accent and demeanor was all New York. She slid forward in her chair and peered directly into her face. "Because when your neck got hurt, your spinal cord swelled up. When the swelling went down, your brain had already forgotten how to send messages out and how to interpret the messages it received. Dr. Monroe told me you were jumpy yesterday?"

Ziva sighed, finally feeling understood. "Yes."

"That's because those signals were getting totally scrambled—they went to the wrong place, or said the wrong thing, or got tangled with other messages. We're going to untangle them a bit. Can I touch your hands?"

She was honored at being asked; her body had been public property since her accident. "Yes," she granted gravely.

Devorah was fleshy—soft and white—but her grip was deceptively strong. She planted her thumbs in Ziva's palms and pushed against the muscle contractions. Ziva inhaled sharply.

"Hurt?"

"Um…yes."

"Ok, I won't do that again. I'm going to squeeze your arms now, check out your elbows and maybe your shoulders—if you'll let me."

"Ok."

Devorah checked over her arms, then her legs, bending and flexing her joints, rolling her hips in their sockets, planting her feet flat on the mattress and counting the seconds until her legs fell outward. She nodded in shorthand to Dr. Monroe, who took notes in Ziva's file.

Finally she sat down and addressed everyone, frank and genuine. "We're going to start tomorrow after your morning routine. Have your friends bring some comfortable clothes for you, because I'm going to start with some stretches and strengthening exercises that'll get your muscles used to moving around again. I want you to be able to use your hands; I'm sure you get ticked fast at being so helpless."

Ziva smiled, loving her forthright, conversational manner. "Yes."

Devorah smiled back. "And once you're moving around a little more you might find it easier to speak up. Your words getting lost in there?"

"Yes!"

Devorah frowned. "You more comfortable in English or Hebrew?"

Ziva gaped, eyebrows raised. "En…en…"

"English. No problem. I can speak Hebrew if you need me to. Anyone else speak your native language?"

"Abba," Ziva struggled to say. "…left."

Devorah turned deliberately to Tony but continued to speak to Ziva. "Your abba left? Where did he go?"

"Back to Tel Aviv," Tony supplied, and Devorah's eyes narrowed behind her glasses.

"Fine," she snapped acerbically, clearly protective of Ziva already. Her tone softened when she saw Ziva's drawn face. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "You've sustained a life-changing injury. Sometimes the people who are supposed to be there for us are the first to run off."

Tim rushed in then, toting his laptop, and startling everyone in the room.

"Oh good," he panted. "Are you the physical therapist? I have some questions for you."

Devorah stuck out her hand and introduced herself. "You're part of Ziva's team?"

"Yeah," he agreed hurriedly. "I've been doing some research, and I wanted to ask about a few different programs here at Walter Reed."

"Which ones?"

Tim opened his laptop and pulled up a video file. "I want to know if Ziva is a candidate for this gait training therapy. It's still in a trial phase at most rehab centers, but so far the results have been pretty amazing, even for high spinal cord injuries."

Devorah didn't even need to watch the video. "Yes, we do that here, and Ziva could be a candidate. I'm going to take today's notes down to my assistant and we'll talk it over. Did you read anything about the hydrotherapy gait training in Boston?"

Tim nodded. "Both programs have high success rates for improved locomotion and balance, but she needs to be able to void independently if she's going to get in the pool."

Ziva grew irritated. "Here," she said pointedly.

Tim blushed and stood to kiss her cheek. "Hi," he said awkwardly. "I thought I was going to miss them and I was really excited about getting you into these research projects. They are looking very positive for you."

"Ok," she forgave quickly.

Devorah retrieved Ziva's splints from the windowsill. "Let's get these back on." With Tony's help she fastened Ziva's stiff legs back into a passive position and reached for her hands.

"Actually," Tony intervened, "is there another way to keep her hands from contracting? She really doesn't like how restrictive those are."

Devorah tried to flatten Ziva's fist across her own palm but her fingers curled up; her fingernails cut shallow half-moons in her palm.

"Not right now," she said softly. "I know how restrictive they are, and I'm sorry for that, but there isn't another model available that will keep her hands and wrists from deteriorating. We'll be lucky to not see any tendon damage, even with these."

Ziva's face, which had been so expectant when Tony spoke up, fell. She sighed, but set her jaw.

"Ready?" Devorah asked her.

"Ok," she conceded.

Devorah splinted her hands and wrists quickly, but didn't lay them back in the bedclothes so quickly.

"Make me a deal, Ziva. I'll work really hard for you, and you do the same for me."

"Deal," she agreed easily, and smiled.

Tony shook Dr. Monroe's and Devorah's hands. "Thanks. See you soon?"

Devorah waved and left, walking with purposeful strides down the hall to the elevator. Dr. Monroe lingered, then beckoned Tony and Tim into the hallway.

"I came in this morning to notes about how Ziva cried for hours last night. I'm worried that she's getting depressed. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to stimulate her today. Get her talking, get her engaged. Read to her, sing to her, play a game. I don't care, but draw her out as much as you can. I don't want to add an SSRI to her daily meds."

They nodded urgently. Tim was secretly happy to be included in the doctor's plan. Her pager beeped and she excused herself.

"C'mon, Elf Lord. Let's make a happy ninja."

Justine propped Ziva into a seated position and the three of them spent the morning watching funny videos online. They caught her up on the latest Navy Yard gossip and teased each other about silly, sibling things. Tony and Tim were just about to launch into a Rat Pack routine when they noticed her eyes wandering and her mouth slack.

"Sleepy ninja," Tony noted, and rang for the nurse to help him lay her down for a nap.

Ziva fell asleep as soon as she was horizontal, but Tim lingered near the bed, checking her blankets and tucking the sheet tight around her legs.

Gibbs arrived with two paper bags from a Thai place down the street. "Want some lunch, Nursemaid McGee?"

He was so easily embarrassed. "Oh. Sure, Boss. Just making sure she's warm enough."

"Abby will be around later with clothes and more blankets for her. Damn desert-dwellers. Not cut out for these seasons."

Tony was already stuffing yellow curried shrimp into his mouth. "Didn't she spend a winter or six in Russia? Wouldn't that prepare her for Maritime Virginia?"

"Damn near froze to death," Gibbs snorted, and neither of them asked how he knew that.

They ate in relative silence, but Ziva awoke when Tim dropped her spirometer to the floor.

Gibbs grabbed her hand, ignoring the splint. "Hey, sleepyhead," he said softly. "Good nap?"

Her brow furrowed and he smoothed it with his thumb. She closed her eyes again.

"I'm here," he assured her. He lowered the bedside rail and leaned on the mattress, taking her cheeks in both hands as he had the night she woke from anesthesia. "I'm here," he repeated, and she groaned in reply.

Tony was puzzled and joined him, balancing his hip on the side of the bed. "What's wrong?"

"She's afraid I'm going to leave," Gibbs grumbled. His voice was low, as if in warning. "I guess dads are getting a bad record around here."

Something akin to sadness, or perhaps longing, spread in his chest. "Yeah," he agreed. "You're always one to break the mold, Boss."

Ziva drifted off to sleep and Gibbs pulled his hands away, raising the safety rail and tossing his takeout container in the trash.

"Tell me how it went with the doc," he ordered gently, and jabbed a blunt finger at Tim's computer. "And didn't you have some video to show me about rehab?"

. . . .

Abby stomped in after dinner with a duffel bag and a shopping bag from a local toy store. Tony and Tim stood to kiss her cheek, then settled in again as Anya cleared Ziva's airways and propped her knees on a pillow.

"Oh, I'm glad you're here!" She bubbled. "I have some clothes for Ziva to change into. Can you help me?"

She turned to the guys. "Shoo, you two. This is girl time." They left in short order promising a Caf-Pow upon their return.

Anya lowered the bed so Ziva was flat. Abby produced a white running shirt designed to wick sweat but stay warm. "How about this?"

The nurse pondered the fabric, rubbing it between her fingers and thumb, and agreed that it was perfect. She had Abby hold Ziva's head and neck immobile while she unfastened the brace and pulled away the front of the vest and collar. Anya dabbed all the red spots with witch hazel, then carefully pulled the shirt down over her head and wove her arms into the sleeves. Abby was pleased with her own choices.

"That…is…nice," Ziva stammered, still feeling a bit awkward at having to be dressed like a child. "No…cold."

Abby laid a kiss on her cheek. "Good. And I was asked to bring these." Out of the bag came a pair of navy warm-up pants with snaps down the legs. Anya shimmied her into them and made sure the catheter tube was straight.

Finally, a warm crazy-quilt appeared and was spread over her. Ziva sighed and smiled. Anya sat her up a little higher and propped her hands on a pillow.

From the toy store bag, Abby pulled a plastic egg full of a strange, viscous material. Pulling off the right splint and setting it aside, she pulled the stuff from the egg and pressed it into Ziva's palm. Her fingers closed over it reflexively and it squished out between her fingers.

"Putty," Abby said proudly. "It's for you to play with."

Ziva's mouth puckered. "I…no…"

Abby was prepared for an argument. "Yes, you can." She released her left hand and laid one over the other. The putty oozed between them and Ziva couldn't keep herself from smirking a little.

Abby pulled her hands apart and laid the putty over her own knuckles, then smoothed Ziva's hands and put them on hers. Her hands fisted again and the putty gave way, squirting up Abby's forearm.

Gibbs came back in. "Am I interrupting a play date, Abbs?"

"No way, Daddy-o. Ziva's just working on her dexterity. Think of it like Rocky, when he drinks that raw-egg smoothie before going to the gym."

"Ack." Ziva pulled a face and watched the putty ooze out of her left fist and onto her leg.

"Ack is right," she agreed. "What's the first thing you want to eat when that tubes comes out of your nose?"

Ziva thought for a minute, weighing sliced mango against lobster ravioli. She couldn't find either one when she opened her mouth, though. Abby waited for a response, but she could only gurgle, "dunno."

Gibbs kissed her knuckles and laid her hand back in the splint. "I'll get you the biggest smoothie you can hold when the doctor pulls that thing," he told her. "I heard mango and raspberry goes well with clear broth."

She frowned hard at him. "No…meat," she clarified.

"Steak?"

"Mm. Fire."

He decided right then that he would barbeque every night if it meant she was motivated to get better. "Fire is right. Think we should trust DiNozzo to make a salad?"

"No," she snorted. "Sharp."

"Yeah," he agreed. "We'll get him a plastic knife." It felt good to be silly for a minute. "And Tim can open the can of beans."

She smiled but he followed her eyes toward the blue diffuser box on the IV pole. She was scheduled for another feeding in an hour, and a nebulizer treatment in twenty minutes. He stroked her cheek to distract her.

"Remember what I said? We got your six. Now get the hell better, David."

He kissed her hand again and she drifted off to the sound of him settling in the recliner next to the bed.


	7. Jig of Life

**I am amazed, as always, and honored and flattered that so many people are following this story and commenting so generously. I can't believe how many people I've met who are wonderful, kind, critical, thoughtful folks. I am so gushy about how much I love you: can't we just hold hands and jump around to hippie-dancing music, like the Bee-People in that old Blind Melon music video?**

**You've made me a very happy Bee Girl.**

**. . . .**

_Now is the place where the crossroads meet; _

_ won't you look into the future?_

_ -Kate Bush, "Jig of Life."_

Tony and Tim had been all over the DC metro area looking for a new home for Tony and Ziva to share once she was released from the hospital. All seven they'd seen so far had been a bust; crooked or narrow doorframes, multi-level living spaces, small bathrooms, and hilly, uneven lots. The final house of the day was a rambler in Martin's Addition with no wheelchair-accessible way to enter the house—while it had one floor and a large kitchen, he'd have to regrade the entire front lawn for Ziva to be able to get into the place. Or install a complex system of lifts.

Tony started the car and turned to Tim. "None of these are going to work. Think you can handle more looking?"

Tim checked his watch; he'd been enjoying the day with his friend, even if it meant enduring his grumbling and worrying. "Sure, but shouldn't we be getting back to Bethesda? Ziva might be looking for you."

"Nope," he replied smartly. "Gibbs is with her today, and Abby will be down after she runs the trace on that Newmark file. How does a guy with that many tattoos commit a murder in broad daylight? And without anyone seeing him?"

Tim shrugged. "Even tattoos are inconspicuous anymore. Especially in Dupont Circle."

Tony guffawed and his phone chirped. "Realtor wants to show me another rambler in Silver Spring. Wanna go, or should I drop you off?"

"No, I'll go. I have all the ADA specs here, so it'll make for a quick stop."

"Then we see my lady," Tony said gallantly, and started the car.

. . . .

"Hey, Ziv," Devorah called from the doorway. "How you doing today?"

She jumped at the sound of her voice; Gibbs had gone to grab a coffee and she'd been dozing in the quiet.

"Ok," she answered blandly and wished she could think of more to say.

"You ready for me?" Devorah was squinting at her, stroking her chin thoughtfully.

"Yes," Ziva answered honestly.

"Ok, then. We're going to do some stretching first—kind of like your range-of-motion exercises—then my assistant is going to come in and we'll do some resistance work. Can I pull the blankets back?"

She hesitated and Devorah shook her head. "Ok, then. You _sabras_ are not equipped to deal with cold, are you?" She took off Ziva's hand splints are she spoke and to both of their surprise, they didn't curl into fists, but remained slack. "Can you squeeze for me?"

Frowning and rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she demanded her fingers close around Devorah's. Nothing happened. She blew out a frustrated breath.

"Don't get mad so soon. Remember how you contracted immediately yesterday?" She held up Ziva's loose fingers. "This is improvement."

She worked each joint on each finger, then her wrists, then her elbows, flexing and bending, holding positions long enough that Ziva felt the muscles tighten and release. It felt _good_ to move, she realized, and relaxed in Devorah's confident company.

"Let's see how high you can lift your arms. Squeak if it hurts; I know you have C7/T1 fractures."

Supporting her elbow with one hand and laying the other against Ziva's side, the lifted her arm so that it was even with her shoulder before it got painful. She lowered it slowly and Ziva sighed.

"Up," she said cautiously. "I like…up."

"Pillows under your elbows to take the weight off your shoulders?"

"Yes."

Devorah stacked two pillows beneath her left arm before moving to her right and performing the same exercise all over again. Gibbs returned as she was propping her right elbow up to match the left.

"Hi," she greeted warmly. "Are you Gibbs?"

He nodded.

"Heard you were the quiet type. Tony told me you'd be in today when I came up to work with Ziva. You doing alright?"

He blinked. He wasn't the patient; why was she worrying about him? "I'm doing fine," he said curiously.

"Good," she said definitively. "The whole is always greater than the sum of its parts."

He smiled a little at the philosopher in work out pants and grey polo. "Steelers fan, huh?"

"I'm straight outta Brooklyn but I was born in the 'Burgh. Sticks with you. Ok, Ziv, I'm not going to take the blankets off, I'm just going to slide them up so I can work on your legs."

She untucked the bedclothes and pulled them up to her neck; Ziva had to strain her eyes to see what she was doing.

"Oops, sorry. Up a little?"

"Yes," she mumbled from under the quilt. He mouth was hidden but her eyes were jovial.

Devorah raised her up a little and tucked everything under her chin. "Better?"

"Yes."

"Alright, cozy girl. Let's get these things off." She pulled off both braces and handed them to Gibbs, who laid them on the chair he wouldn't be sitting in. Devorah rotated her toes and ankles, flexed her foot, and massaged her calves with firm, smooth motions. Placing one supportive hand on her shin and another on the back of her leg, she bent Ziva's knee up toward her chest.

A small spark of pain traveled its way up from behind her knee into the small of her back and Ziva gasped.

"Oh!" She sputtered.

Devorah held her leg up. "You felt something? Describe it for me."

"A…a…hot. Up to…"

"Did it just happen once or does it still hurt?"

"One."

Gibbs moved closer to the bed, fretting silently and gulping coffee, though Ziva didn't appear to be too terribly distressed. Devorah laid down her left leg and raised the right into the same position.

"More…hot," Ziva stammered quickly.

Again, Devorah didn't relent. "These muscles haven't been used in…five days? Six days? Pain means they're working. I'd be worried if this didn't hurt at all."

Gibbs stopped his pacing and smiled at Ziva-pain meant sensation, and sensation meant improvement. She smiled back but only briefly; she wanted to concentrate for Devorah.

They were finishing the third and final round of stretches when Devorah's assistant came in. Blonde and broad, he looked like an Iditarod musher without the frostbite. He introduced himself as Freddie.

"Ziva, Freddie and I are going to do some resistance work with you now. We're going to use big rubber bands to strengthen your muscles. For now, both of us will have to do it. Once you get stronger and more independent, it'll only take one."

"Ok." She eyed the long latex bands warily.

Gibbs caught her hesitation. "You're not going to restrain her, are you? She hates that."

"No, we'll just loop these around her forearms. Ziv, if you feel claustrophobic just give a shout. Or punch Freddie in the nose."

"Ok," she smiled.

They started with her forearms, each one pulling gently against the band looped below her wrists, then moved on to her shoulders, knees and hips. Ziva was sweating slightly when they finished but she looked happy for the first time in days.

"Only you would enjoy this kind of torture," Gibbs grumbled, and she rolled her eyes, smiling.

She was disappointed when her therapists gathered up their things to leave-they were done too soon. Freddie was about to re-splint her hands when he paused, turning her palm up in his own hand.

"She's not contracting so hard any more," he said to Devorah. "Maybe we should leave these for when she's sleeping and the Bedik supports for when she's up? Look." He held her hand out by the wrist and it hung lose at the joint.

Devorah grabbed her thumb and rolled it around its base. "You just needed to move around, huh? Yeah, Fred, measure her for the Bedik supports. The supplier can deliver them by tomorrow morning."

Gibbs swallowed the dregs of his coffee. "Should we put the regular ones back on?"

"Nah," Devorah said easily. "Only when she sleeps—naps and night. And tease her—try to get her to grab, stretch, hold things. Dangle her favorite earrings just out of reach and see how she reacts."

"Hey!" Ziva protested.

Gibbs smirked. "Don't think I won't enjoy that, David."

She huffed but Devorah poked her head back into her line of sight. "I want you to really think about trying new things. That putty Abby brought for you is great; you need the sensory input. And Anya is going to sit you all the way up for a while this afternoon, ok?"

"Ok," Ziva agreed, and tried to prepare herself for the inevitable dizziness that would bring.

"See you _machar_."

"Ok," she agreed again, and yawned.

Gibbs threw away his coffee cup and stroked her cheek with his knuckles. "I gotta put those things on if you're gonna crash."

She pouted at him. "Wait."

"Wait til you're asleep?"

"Yes," she sighed, and yawned again.

"You worked hard today," he whispered. "I'm proud of you, Ziver."

She blinked at him, slow and lazy, until Justine came in to turn her over and clear her airway. She fell asleep quickly and Gibbs splinted her hands, apologizing wordlessly the entire time.

. . . .

It was Tony's turn to bring lunch, so he picked up two gourmet pizzas from a place in downtown Silver Spring and brought them to the hospital. Gibbs was reading a classic car magazine; Ziva was sound asleep.

Her face was partially hidden by an oxygen mask and his blood pressure rose instantly. "What's that for?" He demanded.

Gibbs was unimpressed. "Just a boost, DiNozzo. She worked hard today in PT."

"Is she ok?" He asked around a mouthful of sautéed mushrooms.

"She's fine. She's happy," Gibbs informed him pointedly, and picked the artichokes off his own slice.

"A little extra oxygen will keep her from getting sore," Tim supplied, and opened his laptop to ZNN website. "I'm sure she's fine, Tony."

"Did you find a place, DiNozzo?"

"No," he scorned. "Every place is either on the side of a cliff, or has nine floors, or has doorways Alice needs a potion to fit through. What the hell, Boss? Can't anyone build a normal, compliant house in the DC area?"

"Did you look around Bethesda?"

"Who'd wanna live in your neighborhood?"

Gibbs swallowed carefully, promising to give him hell later. "Someone who needs the support of a nearby family member."

Tony tried not to look sheepish. "Oh. Yeah. McResearch, pull up the realty company's website. Check Bethesda for single family homes for sale."

Gibbs nodded. "Stay under your price point so you can update the kitchen and bath."

Tim took note of several addresses and fired off a few quick emails between bites. Lifting his soda cup to wash down a stubborn onion, he found it empty and Tony grinned at him over the rim.

"Thanks, Tony. Very mature."

"I'm going to kill you both if you wake her," Gibbs threatened conversationally, but Ziva didn't so much as sigh.

A soft knock sounded on the door and Leon Vance stepped through, looking nervous and carrying a small chrysanthemum. Gibbs stood to shake his hand.

"My wife wanted me to stop by with this," he offered quietly, holding out the plant. "I know it isn't much, but we've been thinking of her. Of all of you."

"Thanks, Leon," he said quietly, and offered his chair. "Want a slice?"

"No thanks." He looked at Ziva for the first time and couldn't hide his shock. Team Gibbs had adjusted to seeing her so quiet and still. They'd had time to get used to the pillows and splints, the oxygen, needles, and tubes.

"How's she doing, DiNozzo?" Vance asked.

Tony wondered why he was called on to give a report. "She's hanging in there. Some days are better than others. Dr. Monroe is really good about pain management even though Ziva hasn't asked too much for meds."

He nodded, thinking, and pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket. "Here's her benefit statement from HR. You hear back from Mossad yet, Gibbs?"

"Yeah, they'll cover most of this and a provide a monthly stipend for incidentals. The rest should be covered by her insurance here."

"What about lost wages?"

"Mossad will cover it. Plus the long-term disability from NCIS."

"And what else?"

Gibbs shifted, irritated. "We got it, Leon. Relax."

Vance stood and looked at each of them. "I've taken your team out of rotation for the next two weeks."

They all gaped at him.

"That doesn't mean your previous cases are on hold; you're still working. Abby is still running evidence, and if she needs you guys in the field, she'll ask for it." He softened. "But I'm not an ogre. I get that you guys are a family. Spend some time together and get her well. Goodnight."

He left, leaving three stunned agents in his wake.

"He's not the douche-canoe I always thought it was," Tony offered lamely.

Gibbs glared at him. "It's complicated, DiNozzo."

Tony laughed. "It's _complicated_? Are you two going to the middle school dance together?"

He earned a glare for his sharp tongue and a swift palm to the back of his head.

. . . .

Anya woke Ziva at five to turn her over. She gazed blearily around the room and found her team was gone. Her heart rate picked up and her face went ashen.

"It's ok," Anya assured her. "Everyone just went for a short walk. They'll be back soon."

She gulped back tears and steadied herself, only to hear Tony's distinctive footfalls in the hallway.

"Where?" She demanded as soon as he came in.

"You're not the only one who needs to stretch, Ninja. You expect me to just sit here all day and watch you drool in your sleep?" He dropped a kiss on her forehead and lingered close. "I love you," he sighed in her ear.

"Me…too," she managed.

He kissed her cheek and pulled back, marveling a bit. "You're so warm."

She frowned at him. "Cold."

He sighed and laid the back of his hand on her cheek this time. "No, Zi, you're too warm. I think you're running a fever. Let's call Anya."

She came quickly and took Ziva's temperature, finding it over one-oh-two. "I'll call Dr. Monroe; this looking like pneumonia."

"Pneumonia?" Tony sputtered.

Anya laid a hand on his arm. "It's common with immobile patients, especially ones who have trouble getting rid of their secretions. She got some bacteria in her lungs and couldn't get rid of it. The doctor will probably change the antibiotic in her nebulizer and she'll be fine in two or three days."

"See?" Ziva challenged. "Fine."

He held up his hands. "Ok, you're fine. I won't worry. Like I wasn't worried when I found you on the ground, barely breathing."

She backpedaled and Anya hustled out of there. "You?"

"Me. And you lying in the weeds like some lost orphan, all grey and stiff. I thought you were dead."

A fat tear slid down her cheek and it was his turn to back down. He bent close to her. "I didn't say that to make you cry, but it's true. I was so scared that you were dead. And then I was scared that a nurse was going to come out of the ER and say _Ziva David has died_. And _then_ I was scared that you were going to stop breathing, or swallow your tongue, or have a heart attack. Because I can't even think about walking around on this planet without you."

She blinked at him, dry-eyed, even wry. "I do not walk," she said clearly.

He laughed aloud at her frank expression. "I don't care if you ever walk again, Zi. Just stay with me, ok?"

"Ok," she agreed easily.

They lapsed into an easy silence, broken only by the muffled din in the hallway. Suddenly curious, he turned back to her. "Aren't you afraid to never walk again? I thought you'd be furious about having to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair."

If she could've shrugged, she would have. "Mossad," she said plainly.

"What about Mossad? Hey, Gibbs said I can take these off. I want to hold your hand."

She waited for him to discard the splints before speaking. "I…" she began, and closed her eyes in concentration. "Mossad. Dead."

He felt a little sick-like he'd eaten too many fifty-cent tacos at Rugger's. "You are supposed to be dead by now. Mossad officers don't live to see thirty."

She sighed, relieved to not have to explain further.

"You'll take anything you can get? Is that it? Even if it means staring at these four walls for the next forty years?"

She stared at him, defiant and sad.

"Your father has signed your death warrant a dozen times, hasn't he?"

She closed her eyes at the mention of Eli and refused to answer him.

"Well that's bullshit, David. He threw that away when he handed Gibbs your documents and baby pictures and walked out of this room." He sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "I want you to have a good life," he said quietly. "I want you to be happy and healthy."

She stared at him again; had _anyone_ expressed that to her, _ever_?

He kissed her earlobe, allowing his breath to tease her curls. "Ok?" He finally asked, pulling back.

"Ok," she said softly. "Baby?"

He smiled. "Yeah, your dad brought Gibbs a bunch of pictures of you when you were little. What a beautiful kid, Zi. Seriously, you were as stunning then are you are now."

She dragged her gaze away from him and he knew exactly what she was thinking: _how could he say that? _She was limp, motionless, wasting, even, propped up with plastic and pillows and Velcro straps.

"I mean that," he said truthfully. "Just because you might be a little different now doesn't mean I don't think you're beautiful. You're the only one for me, Zi. That's it. It's all I got."

"Yes," she said weakly. "Me…too."

He nuzzled close, ignoring how her back brace cut into the soft places where she loved to be touched. They stayed like that for a long time, until his own back began to ache and he had to stand. "Not to go all health-conscious on you, but you're super hot now. Where is the doctor?"

"Yes," was all she could find. She was feeling terrible now; achy and tired, and with heat behind her eyes that only illness could sustain. She swallowed a soft groan but Tony wasn't fooled.

"Ok, sweet cheeks. I'm going to chase down Anya and make sure she called Dr. Monroe. Easy, alright?"

She blinked at him and sighed. He kissed her knuckles and left at a jog, returning only a second later with Gibbs, Dr. Monroe, and Anya.

The doctor helped Anya turn her onto her back. "What's the trouble, Ziva? Feeling bad?"

"Yes," she whispered, and valiantly held back tears. She didn't think she'd cried so much in her entire life.

Dr. Monroe checked her nose and throat with a light and Anya cleared her airway again. "The yellow gunk in your throat tells me it's pneumonia. We'll get you on some stronger antibiotics and more frequent nebulizer treatments—we'll do four times a day now instead of two, and oh-two from a mask for twenty-four hours. You should feel better pretty fast."

"Yes. Patient."

The doctor smiled. "That's right; be patient. You're doing really well; this is only a small setback. Devorah told me you're an excellent student."

Ziva blushed. "Yes," she said shyly.

Anya pulled the nebulizer closer and settled the mask over her face. All four of them got her propped up higher so the medicine could reach her lungs quickly and easily.

Dr. Monroe left when her pager sounded. Gibbs' phone chose to chirp at the same time. "That's Abby," he said. "She wants me to check out a set of prints from the Newmark case." He bent down to kiss Ziva's cheek and turned to go when a soft squeak stopped him.

"No," she said from under the mask, weak and scared. "No! Please!"

"I'll be back, Ziver. I'm just going to see if Abby has enough for me to make an arrest."

She made a quiet impatient sound and closed her eyes.

"DiNozzo is here. You'll be ok for two hours while I check in with Abby and run down an arrest warrant." He was growing irritable and itchy to leave; he'd never before had to make such promises to her. The desperation in her voice scared and maybe even angered him. "You're fine," he huffed. "I promise." He cast one final disbelieving look at Tony, who shrugged helplessly, before walking decisively out the door and onto the waiting elevator.

. . . .

The lab was loud; music was blaring, Major Mass Spec was humming, and Abby was tearing through filing cabinets, searching hurriedly for a file in each drawer before slamming it with derision.

"Abbs?" He yelled.

"What?" She yelled back, not bothering to mask her rage. "I can't find the damned, stupid contrast for the ultrasound machine. If that punk janitor put it in autopsy again I'm going to ream him—"

He stuffed a Caf-Pow in her face and she went quiet, fast, shutting off the music and taking long drags from the straw.

"How do you do that?" She wondered. "How do you know what I need when everything is wrong and rotten? You're like some weird genie with a standard-issue haircut."

"What've ya got, Abbs?"

"Prints belong to our Mr. Tattoo Man—not a bad-looking guy—his name is Jason Striker, appropriately enough, and it seems that he beat Petty Officer Gerald Cauffold to death with a twenty-inch length of galvanized drainpipe."

They both fell silent for a moment, realizing what she'd just said. She turned away quickly and wrote down a few notes, then threw a file over her scribbles.

"Do what you need to do," he said quietly, and she nodded.

"Do what _you_ need to do," she countered, and tore off a report for him to give to the prosecutor. In twenty-four hours they'd have their warrant and, hopefully, a location on this Striker fellow.

"How's Ziva?"

"Sick, now. Pneumonia. But she's on antibiotics. You should've seen her during PT today—she was loving it.

"She's really bad at sitting still," she said easily. "How was her stamina?"

"She crashed for three hours after her session. When she woke up she had a fever."

"Pneumonia? And probably a bunch of goo in her lungs."

"Yeah, Abbs," he said flatly, but she just smiled.

"What's she on? Doxycycline? It's the best for upper-respiratory stuff. Do you think she'll want me to visit tonight? Or will she feel too crappy? Is she tired?"

He grabbed her shoulders. "She hates being alone. She got a little upset when I left."

"A little upset? Well you still have all your teeth, so I guess she wasn't too pissed."

"She cried."

Abby clucked her tongue maternally. "Aw, Gibbs! She was sad you were going! She was probably worried you weren't going to come back after her father cruised out on her like he was skipping out on a dinner tab at Occidental. What a cosmic assho—"

"_Abby,"_ he warned sharply. "He may be a selfish ass, but he's made sure Ziva is very well taken care of."

She turned feral green eyes on him. "Let me remember how he sent her on a suicide mission, Gibbs. How, when her _real _father rescued her from that sandy hell-hole, she fell into my arms having lost twenty-two pounds and all human dignity. Can I remember how she cried and cried and _begged _us—_begged_, Gibbs—not to leave her after some sick schmuck bludgeoned her with construction debris and changed her life _forever_?"

"Yes, you can." He acquiesced. "But don't badmouth him around her."

"Fine," she huffed like a teenager. "Go give that paper to the lawyer and come back here. We'll go to Bethesda together and then I'll sleep at your house."

"Do I ever get any privacy?" He groused.

"No," she said tartly. "Not with four kids, you don't."

. . . .

Ziva's room was dark when Gibbs and Abby arrived, and Tony was seated in the corner, playing a game on his phone. He looked up when they pushed the door open and put a finger to his lips; Ziva was blinking at the room, drifting as she usually did when medication was first administered.

"Back," she rasped. From the sound of her voice, she'd declined in the hour and fifteen minutes he'd been gone.

"I'm back," he nodded.

"Hey, Zivvie," Abby cooed, and stroked her hair delicately. "No splints, huh? Too hot?"

"Cold. Devorah." She coughed harshly and closed her eyes.

"Rest," Abby ordered gently. "So you can get better." She continued to play with her hair until Ziva was really asleep, then she and Gibbs splinted her hands and propped them on a pillow.

Tony's head bobbed and Abby gave him a gentle shove. "Go," she ordered again. "Go home and sleep. I think it's my turn to stand guard."

"I'll be here for a while," Gibbs chimed, and set down another coffee on the beside table. He produced the evening paper and laid it on his knee.

Tony gathered his keys and jacket. "Call me," he began, but lacked the strength to finish.

"I'll call you," Gibbs promised lowly, and Abby promptly stole his chair.

"Goodnight," she chirped. "Get something healthy for dinner. Not that takeout, trans-fat garbage."

"You cook for me, then," he complained brotherly, and kissed Ziva's hot cheek. "Goodnight, ninja. Love you," he whispered, and left.

Gibbs leaned back in his seat and turned to the classifieds. "You helping Tim with the house hunt?" He asked Abby, still looking at the paper.

"House hunt? Is he moving?"

"DiNozzo is. He needs a place that's accessible for Ziver."

Even in the relative gloom he could see her eyes widened. "And you're condoning this?"

He threw down the paper. "What choice do I have, Abbs? She can't be on her own, and it seems like he's more than willing to run the show for her. If that's going to be the case, then he'd better get them a place to live that's suited to her needs. I told him to look in my neighborhood."

She sucked in an excited breath. "Gibbs, that's great! You guys can be neighbors and have cookouts and stuff! I'll be sure to give you some of my authentic Southern recipes for Memorial Day—I bet that'll be the first big family outdoor event."

He could've stopped her with a soft warning or a raised hand, but it was nice to allow a little hope, a little imagination, into Ziva's sad situation. Abby rambled on about flagstone patios and hand-built picnic tables, about grilled Andouille sausage and matching family-reunion t-shirts.

A quiet cough interrupted her, follow by another. Ziva began to wheeze. Her eyes opened in panic and an alarm rang on the computer terminal. Anya rushed in.

"What's wrong?" Gibbs demanded.

"She can't breathe. There's too much mucus in her lungs." She suctioned her airway but Ziva coughed on, raspy and weak.

Another nurse poked her head in as the alarm sounded a second time. "Call the attending," Anya snapped, and suctioned her again. A male doctor that Gibbs didn't recognize rushed in and he and Abby were pushed into the dim hallway.

"We'll be out in a minute," Anya said briskly, and ran back inside when the alarm rang a third time. Two aides rolled a closed cabinet on wheels into Ziva room.

Abby panicked. "She can't die, Gibbs! Not after all this!" She wrung her hands, bit her lip, rocked on her platform boots.

Platitudes died on his tongue and he pulled her close and rubbed her back in chafing circles. "The doctors will take good care of her. Deep breaths, Abbs."

"Easy for you to say," she sniffed. "You're not choking on your own sputum."

"Hey," he scolded. "Enough."

She began to cry softly and the doctor stepped out. "I'm Dr. Thurston," he said softly. "Ziva is producing a lot of mucus, which she can't cough up on her own. We're doing to do a pleural tap to drain that fluid away.

"What's that?" Gibbs demanded.

"We'll insert a catheter into her lung through her back and attach a tube to it. The fluid in her pleural space will drain into a bag and her lung capacity will increase. She'll be able to breathe again. Can you sign here so we can procede?"

Gibbs smeared his signature across the form and pulled his arm from Abby's desperate grip. "How long is this going to take?"

"Half an hour. You can wait down the hall. We'll get you when she's finished."

Gibbs guided Abby into the waiting area and yanked out his cellphone, dialing Tony's number without looking. It rang twice before he picked up, groggy.

"Get your ass down here," he snarled, and hung up.

Tony arrived in a rush, wearing the same jeans he'd had on earlier and a rumpled Buckeyes sweatshirt.

"S'goin' on?" He slurred, exhausted.

"Ziva's got some fluid in her lungs. They're draining it now."

Tony frowned. "Damn," he mumbled. He took a breath, ready to launch into a tirade, but Anya interrupted him.

"The thoracentesis is done. Ziva is still under the weather, but now she'll improve faster. C'mon, she's awake."

She lead them back into N-704. The lights were on. Ziva was on her right side and wearing a hospital gown again instead of her white shirt. Abby peered around to the catheter that poked out between the straps of her brace. Her skin was still yellow with betadine.

"Better?" She warbled, fighting tears.

"Yes," Ziva assured her roughly.

"Good." Abby pointed an accusatory finger at her. "Because that's it—you're through. No more scaring us, no more getting hurt or sick or…anything _ever_. You've worn out your Worry Card."

Ziva's eyebrows went up. "You…left?"

"Left where? Oh…_go_? Like…_away? Forever?_ No way, Ziva! We love you! How could you think we would just leave?" Her eyes slid sideways and Abby got the message. "Well, your Papa is kind of a jerk. Just because he bailed on your hospital party doesn't mean we're going to. We promised, remember?"

"Ok," Ziva sniffed sadly. Her eyes slid closed.

Abby brushed a hand over her feverish brow. "Now go to sleep for real, ok? No more fooling around with tubes and needles and coughing green goo all over the nurses." She kissed her hair and stepped back, satisfied that their emergency was over. "I get the cot," she announced, and folded herself onto it, kicking off her boots and pulling her long legs beneath her.

"Take the recliner, Boss," Tony offered. "I'll be up for a while."

Gibbs lowered his creaky bones into it and kicked his feet up. "Don't stay up all night, DiNozzo. Tim has nine houses for you to look at tomorrow."

"On it, Boss," he sighed, and pulled Ziva's splinted hand into his own.


	8. Great Beyond

**I'm still overwhelmed by the support I receive here as a writer; I do my best to be gracious and timely. Am I doing a good job? I hope so. I do not wish to disappoint you, with your reviews and messages and thoughtfulness. I promised I would write in the interim between holidays, so I did; I wanted this to be the first thing up, but "Aveilit" and Chapter 33 (right?) of "Foundling" got in the way any time I tried to focus. Sorry. :/**

**Thanks for reading, and talking to me, and thinking, and singing. Always singing. AmIright?**

_Talk is fine,_

_ but I don't want to just stay around._

_ Why can't we pantomime? Just close our eyes?_

_ You and I with wings on our feet._

_ -"Great Beyond," R.E.M._

In fever, Ziva dreamed of her mother; the length of her hair, the taper of her hands, how she would stand by the window in their Tel Aviv apartment with the phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Rivka's Hebrew carried the flavor of her Persian parents; Farsi inflection tinged her words, especially if she was cooking or speaking to her mother, who retired with her father to Hertzaliya. They rarely visited—Eli did not do well in their small garden home. He did not like to watch the girls play in their swimming pool.

Rivka despised the strictures of the Orthodox day school Eli insisted upon for Ziva, so on Friday nights, instead of lighting the Sabbath candles and serving an elaborate meal, she took the girls to outdoor concerts, sidewalk cafes, the Aviary in Yarkon Park. She bought them egg crèmes and popcorn, and all three of them spent the evenings silly with sugar and dancing to the music that spilled from the bars and clubs in the tourist district near their home. Ziva fell asleep those nights in her parents' bed with Tali's sticky hand in her hair.

Her father's voice woke her. He was speaking softly to someone she could not hear. It was official business; she heard something about forms and submitting and money. She sniffed—the air was warm and humid—and opened one eye to artificial light. It was Gibbs she heard; he was speaking quietly into his cell phone, taking notes with a silver pen given to him by Abby. It was engraved with the word _fox_ on the metal tab that keeps it from tumbling around in his pocket.

She blinked, feeling heavy and a little numb. Her sheets were damp; she was sweating again because of the fever. Or maybe because her stupid, inert body just decided that it wanted to. There was a tube in her back that drained fluid—Tony told her it was brownish and cloudy—into a bag hung at the bedside. She rolled her eyes around the room, but Gibbs tucked his chair into the corner so she couldn't see him. She tried to say _hey_ but it came out as a squeak. _Dammit_.

Gibbs was still talking, but he got up and moved into her line of sight, then jammed the phone between his ear and shoulder and took the splints off her hands. He bent to kiss her head, but changed directions quickly and went back to the table. She heard scratching—more notes, probably—and then he clicked his phone shut and hovered over her, pressing kisses to her brow.

"How you doin', Ziver?"

She blinked at him and said nothing, hating how the few words she can muster are muffled by the oxygen mask. Dr. Monroe said she must wear for an extra day—something about lung capacity and swollen bronchi.

Justine walked in and Ziva suppressed a groan. She hated visits from the nurses. They put their hands on her without asking, roll her like a log, stuff tubes down her throat and masks over her face. She is embarrassed when they do things like check her urine output and grab the front upright of her brace to check for sores and loose straps, meaning weight loss.

But Gibbs was there with his gentle, callused hands. He stroked her hair while her airway was cleared, held her hands as Justine attached the cupful of medication to her nebulizer and switched the masks. He is kind and good and patient. And he is _there_.

Justine left and he laid a cool, damp flannel on her hot brow. "Doin' ok?"

She rolled her eyes and huffed, sending a stream of fog between them.

"Don't be embarrassed," he hushed, reading her perfectly. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

Then why did her father leave? He'd looked at her like she was some kind of project—a military experiment in medical engineering gone horribly awry. Tears pricked behind her eyes and her humiliation deepened.

"Hey," Gibbs said. His voice was soft but stern. "That's enough tears. I know you feel crappy but it'll get better. Enough crying, Ziver."

Anger welled. "No," she spat, furious.

He wanted to take his words back; she had every right to whatever she was feeling. "Ok, then cry all day. I'm not going anywhere."

He mopped tears from her face with a second, dry washcloth and stroked her hair again. She calmed herself, counted his gentle touches, closed her eyes, and took slow, even breaths so the steroids and antibiotics could get into her lungs and do their job.

He sat back. "That's better," he sighed.

Devorah came in, swaggering slightly, wearing her usual Steelers ballcap. "Hey," she said kindly, addressing both of them. "Heard you were sick, Ziv. Wanna tell me what's happening?"

Ziva looked at Gibbs, silently granting permission for him to speak for her.

"She's got a mild case of pneumonia. Dr. Monroe put her on doxycycline for the infection and inhaled steroids to help her cough."

"Are her ribs bound?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Ziva's chest muscles are a little weak. If we wrap a big band around her lower ribs it'll give her some added tension. It makes coughing more productive. How's that tube in your back, Ziv?"

She screwed up her face. "Is…stuck."

Devorah puzzled for a minute. "Is it uncomfortable? Did they pack the area around it so it didn't rub?"

"Dunno," Gibbs said, feeling ineffective. "They put it in late last night. We just wanted her to be able to breathe."

"Gotcha. Listen, we're going to sit you up and take a look before we do any stretching. I want to see if they put a donut around the port. If they didn't, we'll add one. We'll also wrap your chest and John will do some breathing exercises with you. I might be sticking around for a little longer today. Is that alright?"

"Yes," Ziva said immediately, and the nebulizer beeped, finished with her treatment. Devorah lifted off the mask and replaced it with oxygen, then paged Freddie and the respiratory therapist.

"Well, let's get these off while we wait." She moved to the end of the bed and Ziva's eyebrows went up. "No, I'm not going to uncover you, _sabra_, I'll just pull the covers up a little so I can get your braces off. I bet you could use a break from them."

She folded back the corner of the blanket and stripped off the splint, then returned the covers and did the same to the other side.

"No sores, Ziv. That's great. Are your friends helping with some range-of-motion stuff?"

"Yes."

"The more you move the easier both our jobs will be."

Ziva blinked. Devorah nodded that she understood.

Freddie rolled a padded bolster into the room.

"Where's John?" Devorah asked, and rearranged Ziva's twelve-leads.

"Emergency. He'll have to stop by later."

"Fine. Ziv, you're going to sit forward for a few minutes, ok?"

"Yes," she mumbled, a little unsure of what they meant.

Freddie elevated the bed as far as it would go—which was almost a ninety-degree angle. Devorah rolled the bolster in front of her and laid her arms over it

"Ok, kiddo, we'll push this time, but you'll learn to do this on you own."

They each slid one hand between her and the mattress and laid the other against the front of her brace. Slowly, so she didn't get nauseated or dizzy, they leaned her forward until her chest was against the bolster and her arms were over it. She had to strain her eyes to look up at Gibbs.

Ziva's head swam. "Oh," she said softly.

"Doing great, Ziva," Freddie encouraged. "The catheter looks good. Devorah's putting a little pad around it so it doesn't itch your skin."

Gibbs brushed tentative fingers over her brow. "Ok, Ziver?"

She blinked, not trusting herself to say 'yes'.

"Ok," he replied softly, and dragged a knuckle down her arm, gentle and reassuring.

Freddie and Devorah finished taping the cushion around her port and wrapped her lowest ribs with a wide elastic band. They settled her back against the mattress and she sighed, grateful.

"Was that hard?" Devorah asked.

"Yes," Ziva replied weakly, and staved off another round of tears.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. Maybe we were a little early for that, but I was worried about the tube in your back. I don't want anything to irritate you while we work. Except for me, of course."

John skidded in, red-faced and rushed. He resembled Freddie in his size and complexion.

"Sorry I'm late, had a rough session with a kid upstairs. Hey, Ziva. You're all wrapped up?"

Devorah pulled back an inch of blanket to show him the binding, and he nodded. "Nice work. Cough for me."

She complied and remarkably, it was easier than ever. There was a hard rattle in her chest and she gagged on mucus. Gibbs went white but everyone else smiled, and John cleared her airway.

"Bravo, Ziv," Devorah said proudly. "Bet no one has ever congratulated you for coughing up infection before."

Ziva almost laughed and coughed again, bringing up more gunk. John decided to stand at attention with the suction, as Rita had a few nights ago. Her spell went on for a few minutes but at the end she felt clearer, less sick, less pathetic.

Devorah stretched and massaged her muscles, and Freddie worked with her on resistance and sensory exercises. They were about to leave when a hospital courier appeared and handed Freddie a small box. It contained Ziva's new wrist supports.

"Have you ever gone in-line skating, Ziva?" Devorah asked.

No, she hadn't. She was too busy investigating, interrogating, and dispatching enemies of the state of Israel when the sport gained popularity. And trying to finish high school.

"These are a little like the wrist guards I wore when I used to skate around the Upper West Side of Manhattan. They're made of neoprene and have stays in them to keep you from contracting. These are different that the nighttime ones, though, because they'll leave your fingers free. They're for support, mostly, not to keep you from moving."

_More Velcro_, Ziva thought cynically, and watched Freddie tighten the straps. They were not nearly as restrictive as the splints she wore at night, so she decided to tolerate them. _For now, _she thought, and hoped someone could read her mind.

Devorah took her hands. "Squeeze for me, Ziva."

She stared back, defiant. They have played this game before and she failed miserably.

"Squeeze, _sabra_. I haven't got all day for you to ponder the nature of the universe."

Ziva sucked in a breath, quelled her fury, and tightened her small fingers around Devorah's wide palm. Freddie stood and whooped like he was at a hockey game. Gibbs pulled out his phone, dialed, and grunted into it.

Devorah grinned, cheeky. "Finally! You _sabras_ are always late, aren't you? Like the whole world runs on Israeli Standard Time."

"Hey," Ziva scoffed back, feeling like she'd run a marathon. She squeezed again, hoping it wasn't a one-time reflex. It wasn't; her fingers left white marks on her therapist's skin.

Freddie pressed a red rubber ball against her palm. "Hold it," he ordered gently.

She scowled down at it and tightened her hand again. The muscles in her forearms rippled and Devorah inhaled sharply.

"Nice," she said. "All the nerves are responding now. Can you let go of the ball?"

Ziva relaxed her grip, but the ball seemed to stick in her palm.

"Let it go, Ziv," Devorah prompted.

She fought, flexed; the ball dropped onto the quilt and rolled two inches to the left.

"Good, do it again."

She strained. The muscles in her upper arm tensed and released, but her hand stayed put.

"It…far. I…"

"Well reach for it, _sabra_," Devorah said kindly. "You think I'm here to do everything for you?"

"No," Ziva retorted tartly, and bore down on her right arm, willing it to slide the necessary inches across the bedclothes. It obeyed, and her fingers closed again over the red ball.

She grinned, triumphant. "Did it!"

"Did what?" Tony was clinging to the doorframe with both hands like he'd slowed himself from a sprint, "What did you do?" He asked Ziva, who turned her mouth up but couldn't figure out how to tell him.

"What did she do?" He demanded from Gibbs, Devorah, any of them. "What did I miss?"

"Shush," Ziva said, and scowled at him. She didn't appreciate the fuss.

Freddie rolled the ball back into the blankets. "She'll show you," he said amiably.

Ziva moved her arm, grabbed the ball, and released it again, feeling like a child asked to sing for adult company. She switched and repeated it with her left hand, then looked up, smirking, at Tony.

He lowered himself into a chair, right hand cupping his mouth. "Wow, Zi, that was incredible. I'm so proud of you."

Devorah took the ball and massaged Ziva's tense forearms. "She has a hundred and one degree fever and she still manages to make this kind of progress," she said wryly. "Imagine what she's going to do when the pneumonia clears out."

Freddie adjusted the tension strap on Ziva's wrist support. "You may have met your match, Dev."

"After what I just saw, I'm willing to acknowledge that anything is possible. You need a rest, Ziv?"

"Yes," she agreed quietly, and Freddie lowered the bed.

"We'll be back tomorrow," Devorah said, more to Tony and Gibbs than Ziva, who is already dozing.

"See ya," Gibbs replied quietly.

Tony sat for a long time with his hand over his mouth. It wasn't until Anya came in to roll Ziva and put her back on the nebulizer that he found his voice.

"I really want to be happy," he mumbled, "but I'm afraid to celebrate her progress. I always feel like…what if that's it? What if she only goes that far?"

Gibbs shrugged dismissively. "And? You gonna stop loving her, DiNozzo? After all that crap you gave me about Rule Twelve?"

"No, Boss. I'm just worried that she's going to get frustrated and give up."

"Ziver loves a challenge. I think as long as we keep 'em coming, she'll be ok. What's up with the house?"

"You want to come with tonight? I have an appointment at five to see two houses in Bethesda. One on your street—two blocks down—and one a street over."

"Yeah, I'll go. What's new in the bullpen?"

Tony paused. "What do you know about this Striker case?"

"The guy beat a petty officer to death last month. Took local LEOs a while to track him down."

"What about his weapon?"

"Galvanized pipe."

Tony looked at him sharply. "Yeah. What's Abby got going on that?"

"Nothing yet. I tried to get a warrant last night but JAG held off, said they wanted more info from Metro. Guy's got a rap sheet. Abbs was waiting for the fax from the Southeast Precinct when I talked to her this morning."

Gibbs' coffee had gone cold. "I'm going for another round. You want anything?"

"Water?" Tony's throat was suddenly very dry.

"Yeah. We're checking every angle, DiNozzo, don't worry."

He left, and Ziva stirred, lashes flickering against her cheeks. Tony stroked her cheek and she calmed again, sliding back into unconsciousness. He studied her for a minute, took in her dark curls, damp with sweat, the dark circles under her eyes, the brace that held her stiff from waist to chin. He willed himself not flinch and ran two fingers over the Y-shaped upright that attached the vest to the cervical collar. It is, by far, the most intimidating part of her accident; he shudders to think that he will have to learn how to help her into and out of it. So far he'd gotten away with never forcing her hands into her sleep splints, or having to touch the restrictive braces on her legs.

Anya came in to check Ziva's temperature and remove the nebulizer mask, and walked in on him with his hand still on her orthosis.

"You'll have to get used to that thing sooner or later," she said evenly. "She'll have it for a while."

He nodded, embarrassed. "I know. But Ziva has a really hard time with being restrained. I can't even think about getting her into that thing. There are so many buckles and straps." He ran a hand over his hair. "And her legs…"

"Well I'm going to change her gown and linens tonight before bed. You get to help me."

He shook his head. "I have an appointment to look at some real estate tonight. For her." He amended quickly, so Anya wouldn't think he was an insensitive jerk.

"I'll wait for you to come back," she said sweetly, and made a few notes in Ziva's computerized file. "And the antibiotics are working. You should be happy to know that she should be over the infection in a few more days."

He nodded again, glum. "Thanks."

"She's one tough little cookie."

He laughed a little. "You have no idea."

. . . .

The first house is yet another DC suburban rambler: red brick, blue shutters, one floor. But from the driveway—which is as level as it gets at the edge of the Appalachian Mountains—Tony saw a glass addition on the back of the house and a paved walkway leads around the hedges to the back yard. He wanted to see what was back there.

"Wait, DiNozzo," Gibbs growled. "Let's see the interior first."

There are stairs up to the house, but only a few, and they're lower in rise than the ones on Gibbs' house. A ramp could be installed easily.

The first floor had been remodeled into a great room, with hardwood floors and open access to a kitchen that takes up the entire back of the home. The hallway to the bedroom was wide, the bathroom in need of updating, but Tony felt a pressure in his chest that meant something good was about to happen.

The master suite had a view of the deep wooded lot; no neighbors behind them, only beside.

"Ziva would love this," he sid from the bath, and his voice echoed. There is a garden tub under a skylight.

"How's she gonna get into it?" Gibbs whispered, and shame replaced the happiness.

"Don't," he hissed. "I hate to think of her as disabled. Let me imagine, please. Just for now. I know I'll have to change it."

Gibbs nodded, sipped his coffee. "As long as you know what you gotta do, DiNozzo."

The glass addition didn't disappoint: there was a small, indoor, in-ground pool attached to the back of the house. Access was through a small mudroom next to the kitchen. There were no stairs and plenty of room to maneuver a wheelchair. The pool is small, but Tony thought instantly of hydrotherapy. And perhaps late-night skinny-dips.

"Think about the maintenance," Gibbs warned him.

"Tim said a pool lowers the value of a house in this area. Unlike Miami or Vegas, where it adds value." A sly grin cut across his face. "Bet I can get 'em to cut me a deal."

"You got two bathrooms and a kitchen to update. You're going to need a deal if you want this place, DiNozzo."

He signed the paperwork and offered ten grand in hand money.

. . . .

Abby and Tim were eating macaroni and cheese from Picnic when Tony and Gibbs got back to Ziva' room. She was awake and watching her friends eat with thinly-veiled interest.

"Hey," Tony said softly, and sidled up next to her. "Guess what I just did."

The diffuser ticked beside him; Ziva was also having dinner, apparently.

"I just put an offer a new house for us."

Several emotions played across her face—fear, joy, resignation, and a tiny, tiny flickering of hope.

"I brought pictures. Want to see them?"

"Yes," she mumbled from beneath the oxygen mask.

"Here," he held up his smartphone. "Living room, kitchen—See the yard? Level. Lots of trees.—guest bath, master suite. And look, it even has a pool because I know you love to swim."

One tear crept down her cheek but she smiled and blinked, trying to tell him that she was ok.

He reached out and brushed her curls away from her eyes. "I know," he whispered. "We're going to be great, ok? Trust me."

"Ok," she mumbled.

Anya had been waiting for his return and stepped in with clean sheets and a fresh gown. "Everyone out," she ordered sweetly. "Tony and I are going to do a quick change. Then you can come back."

He smiled at Ziva who saw right through it.

"It..ok…Tony. Be…ok."

"Alright, sweet cheeks. I'll be gentle, I promise."

He helped Anya sweep away the sweaty sheets and replace them with new ones, then flattened the bed. Ziva squeaked, and he propped her arms up again.

"Ready?" Anya asked delicately, and unbuckled the front of Ziva's brace. She showed him how to cup a hand under her chin to steady her head, and lifted the front away. Her gown, sticky with perspiration, stuck to the padding momentarily, then came loose. He breathed steadily, tamping down helplessness and inadequacy.

"Now we change her?"

Anya peeled the gown away and gooseflesh rose on her skin.

"Cold," Ziva said weakly, and he felt the delicate bones of her throat and jaw shift beneath his hand.

"Can't you cover her up?" He demanded, averting his eyes from Ziva's bare breasts. "It's immodest and she's freezing."

"No, I'm treating these red marks on her chest with the witch hazel your friend insists upon. Almost done," Anya said kindly, and set the bottle aside. She laced Ziva's arms into a fresh gown and tucked it behind her shoulders. She stepped closer to him and replaced his hand under Ziva's jaw with her own.

"Ok, you put it back on."

"What? No! I don't know what I'm doing! I could hurt her!"

"You watched me, and now I'll guide you."

He lifted the front of her brace from the recliner; it was lighter than it looked. He apologized to Ziva silently—Rule Six be damned—and lowered it onto her.

"Up a little," Anya instructed. "This padding—" she broke off to point at the front of the cervical collar, "needs to go right up onto her chin."

"Right there," she stopped him. "See how it's just shy of her lower lip?"

"Yeah," he said vacantly. "Doing ok, Zi?"

"Ok," she said quietly.

He buckled her in and needed to tighten the straps under her arms.

"She's lost weight," he blurted.

"She'll lose more," Anya assured him, and looked at the diffuser. "She's eating maybe a third of what she's consume on a normal day, I'm guessing, based on her height and muscle tone. Once she can eat independently it'll come back on. Don't worry."

"Everyone around here is telling me not to worry," he grumbled. "But it's all I can seem to do."

Ziva gave him a fisheye, and he leaned down close. She smelled of hospital; of disinfectant and adhesive tape, but beneath that was a sweet, fresh scent. A small, blue bottle on the windowsill caught his eye and he felt dumb—of course Abby would bring Ziva's favorite Dead Sea moisturizer from home. He dabbed a little on his hand and rubbed it on her knuckles.

She sighed and he felt her relax and drift off.

"I'm proud of you," he said quietly. "You are going to take rehab by storm, Beautiful."

She smiled under her oxygen mask and squeezed his hands. He grinned, lifted the mask from her face, and kissed her on the mouth.


	9. Make It Easier

**More and more and more and more. Thanks, everyone, for the kindness! I tried to thank everyone personally, but not everyone has an account, and some I may have forgotten because of the holiday break. You're all too, too kind. I love how invested my readers seem to be, and I hope to keep yous all happy. You are the best forever and ever. Srsly.**

_Got a chip on my shoulder, _

_ 'bout the size of a mental block._

_ I got someone on the telephone,_

_ tryin' to sell me a future in stock._

_ -"Make It Easier," Indigo Girls._

Tony wrung out the cloth and dabbed again at the corner of Ziva's left eye. The fever broke in the early morning hours, and she was having her first post-illness bath. She was still sweating a little, but the warm, soft cloths were a balm on her gritty skin. She hummed in contentment.

"Feel good?" He whispered, and swiped gently around her ears.

"Yes," she mumbled.

He let the cloth linger on her cheek for a minute. Justine gave him a gentle look and slid her palm beneath Ziva's chin. He took the hint, set the cloth back in the basin, and unfastened the CTO so they could finish. This time Justine was sure to cover Ziva after she applied the witch hazel.

Dr. Monroe walked in with Amy and John. "Morning, guys. How we doing around here?"

"Ok," Ziva mumbled, and closed her eyes, embarrassed.

The doctor caught it. "Hey, there's no need to be ashamed."

"Ok," she said again, but didn't meet her eyes.

Tony, out of Ziva's line of sight, held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Dr. Monroe offered him a smile and duck of her head that meant _she's improving, just frustrated_.

"Ziva, I want to spend the better part of the day with you. I want to do an MRI and a CT scan, x-rays of your chest, back, and neck, and some blood tests to make sure the medicine is balanced. Are you ok with that?"

"Yes," she said hollowly.

"You're not looking at me. I know that means something is wrong."

Ziva gripped the crazy quilt in weak fists. Her eyes flickered, the lids twitched to reveal a blank stare.

Dr. Monroe slid forward. Amy pushed the button to shift her upright and checked the heart monitor.

"Her pulse is up," she said without alarm.

Ziva exhaled harshly. "It…it…"

What?" Tony begged, and grabbed her hands. They were limp and clammy.

"I think she's having some sympathetic storming," Dr. Monroe informed him, and made a few notes in the file. "Her brain is just trying to make new connections around the damaged areas. Ziva, can you tell me how you feel right now?"

She paused, mouth open. "No," she finally said, and tightened her grip on Tony's hand. He squeezed back, sighing.

Dr. Monroe closed the file. "This is why I need to see inside her head. Amy just upped the Dilantin a little, so the 'noise' she's experiencing should quiet down in a minute or two."

Tony nodded. "Is she in pain?"

"Not acute pain," Dr. Monroe said thoughtfully, "more general discomfort. She may be achy, like after a hard workout. If she was in pain she'd find a way to tell us."

"You mean she'd be crying again," he correctly bluntly.

"I hate to say it that way, but yes."

John checked her SATs and adjusted the oxygen flow, then cleared her airway. "She's got really good saturation. I think we'll be able to take that catheter out today."

Tony smiled at Ziva, who was distant, blinking, obviously not registering what was happening around her unless directly addressed. "That would be great. The fewer tethers the better."

Dr. Monroe looked at each of them. "I want to knock her out," she declared.

"Huh?" Tony started. "Why? She'll be ok once the medicine gets into her system."

She shook her head. "I want her to rest. I want to do the tests without having to reset because she's uncomfortable." She stood and brushed Ziva's arm with her fingertips. "Ziva, can you look at me?"

She complied, sliding her vacant gaze across the room slowly.

"We have to do a bunch of tests this morning. You remember that, right?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to just sleep through them? We can give you some medicine to help you relax, and then we'll do all the imaging without bothering you. Do you want to do that?"

"Yes," she sighed, relieved.

"Perfect. I'm going to place an order for the sedatives while you and Tony spent a little time together. Once you're asleep we'll take you upstairs for an MRI. Sound good?"

"Yes," she sighed again, and flexed her hand in Tony's. He smiled down at her.

John and Amy waved goodbye and left. Dr. Monroe paged the pharmacy and motioned for Tony to follow her into the hallway. He kissed Ziva's knuckles and wagged a finger at her, meaning he'd be back in a minute.

"You should go to work," she said succinctly. "I'm going to keep her until early afternoon, and she'll be out like a light. Go—do something normal for the day and come back around three or four. She'll be awake and I'll have some results by then."

He nodded. A day of paperwork and lab visits sounded good to him, but worry gnawed at his gut. "Was she having a seizure?"

"A very small one, yes, but I think we're looking at healing, not more damage. Sometimes patients get these little storms when the synapses are trying to re-work those electrical pathways to overcome injury. I want to do a very thorough CT scan today and see if her TBI is visible. Maybe I'll be able to see where this aphasia is coming from and how we can get her past it." She thought for a minute. "I'm going to start talking to speech pathologists for her."

"That sounds like a good idea," Tony agreed. "Is there anything we can do in the meantime?"

Dr. Monroe smiled. "Keep her stress down. I think that's why she had that little event; she was trying really hard to tell us something, but she tripped the breaker and the power source overloaded."

"You're always encouraging me to make her happy."

She nodded. "Listen, I'm straightforward—I don't buy into that 'healing touch' nonsense. But a calm, content patient is more willing to try different techniques to get better. The happier Ziva is, the more effective I am—_we_ are—as physicians."

"I get it," he replied softly. "So I'll just hang with her until the meds kick in, then I'll go to work for a few hours. You know to call my cell, right?"

She nodded. "We'll be fine."

Ziva was still staring blankly at the wall.

"Hey," he said quietly. "I didn't get the chance to tell you that the offer was accepted. We're going to have a house in four weeks."

"Oh," she said quietly. Her eyelids slid to half-mast. "House," she echoed, trying out the word.

"A house," he repeated. "Just for us. And maybe some Tiny Tonys someday."

"Ok," she agreed easily.

"And I'm going to find a contractor to help me upgrade the kitchen and bathroom. Gibbs will help me build ramps for the front and back doors, and we'll put a stair lift down to the basement so you can do laundry."

She jerked her eyes over to meet his. "No," she said clearly. "You."

"I don't do laundry," he defied. "Unless you want me in pink undershirts."

"No," she sighed. "Me."

"We'll probably have to get a cleaning lady. Would that be ok?"

"Yes," she said quietly, and remembered Manya, her father's Russian housekeeper and Ziva's only ally after Rivka died. She wanted to ask about a garden, but the question died in her mouth.

Justine stepped in with two syringes. "The MRI is scheduled in half an hour. That'll give these just enough time to work. Ready?"

Tony nodded and she administered the medications through the port in Ziva's left forearm. She began to drift off immediately; her grip went lax, her arms loosened in their sockets.

Tony stroked her slack cheek. "Rest, ninja. Everything is ok. You're safe."

"Yes," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

Anya watched the monitor; her heart and respiration slowed to a normal rate for sedation, then held steady.

"And she's out," Tony declared, voice pitched like a sports announcer. "Should I wait around?"

"Nope. Get out of here. Go to work. You should know by now that I take good care of her."

"Absolutely, you do." He stood, bent over the bed, kissed Ziva's cheek, and then left, casting one worried glance over his shoulder as the door swung shut behind him.

. . . .

Gibbs dropped six fat files on his desk. "Nice of you to join us, DiNozzo. Start filing."

"Boss, I'm a Senior Field Agent. I don't _file_."

"You do now. File those, then get upstairs for the second pile. It's by the copier."

Tony's phone rang; a light on the keypad indicated an internal line.

"Very Special Agent DiNozzo," he chimed, thinking it was Ruth from HR calling for his lunch order.

He was dead wrong. "I need to see you," Vance ordered.

"Yes, Director. Can I get you a coffee on the way up?" Tony buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie. "Maybe a water?"

"No," Vance said flatly, and hung up.

Tim's eyebrows rose. "Everything ok?"

"Vance. Now." He took the steps by threes and smoothed his jacket before knocking.

Director Vance had three eight-by-ten glossy photos on the desk in front of him; they were all pictures of the thicket where he'd found Ziva. Tony's heart dropped into his stomach.

"Can I help you, Director?"

"Got the report from Bolling PD about Ziva's accident. I want to talk about the lost contact."

He grimaced and sat down. "Ok," he said politely. "What would you like to know?"  
>"Why did you lose contact?"<p>

"Ziva chased Jantzen down into the wooded area. I told her via earwig that I'd lost visual on him, but she went ahead anyway. Gibbs didn't call her off, and the next thing we knew, we had Jantzen in custody and she was nowhere to be found. I think she was assaulted a minute after she was out of sight. Maybe less than that. I arrested DeCroo a minute later, and we handed him off to PD a minute after that."

"You didn't think it was strange that you asked for her location and she didn't reply?"

Tony sighed. "Ziva can be a little…"

"Headstrong?" Vance supplied.

"And then some. I thought she was taking the guy out and couldn't get to me. Or that she and Gibbs were together and they'd meet me by the car."

Vance nodded, fingers tended. "So how you do think I should explain this to the higher-ups, should they ask?"

He sighed again. "There was no overt breach of protocol. We're a good team with plenty of successful cases to support our methods and means of communication. There should be no need to explain the gory details. I think this could have happened to any agent at NCIS."

Vance nodded again. "No one, thus far, has expressed an interest in exploring this event beyond yours and McGee's corroborating statements. Human Resources is the one department with the questions, but they're just trying to get her benefits in order."

"I understand," Tony replied. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"  
>"How is Agent David?"<p>

"She's…all right, I guess. She's getting over pneumonia and she's gotten some control back in her hands and wrists, but she's still having little seizures. She can't tell us much, either. It's a lot of guessing and yes-or-no questions."

Vance studied the photos again. "Please give her my regards. Would it be ok if my wife stopped by one day? She'd like to visit."

"I'm sure Ziva would love a little company," Tony said smoothly, feeling a little like he was lying. "Give Jackie my number and we'll schedule a visit for when she's doing a little better."

"Thanks, Agent DiNozzo."

Vance waved him out.

McGee looked up. "And?"

Tony shrugged. "He wanted to check on my statement, make sure we didn't break protocol. I hope the Powers That Be leave us alone on this."

"Abby's gone over the chain of events about a hundred different ways. She thinks DeCroo assaulted Ziva in the twenty seconds after you lost visual on her."

Tony shook his head. "I should've followed her."

"And let Jantzen get away? You know that's not right. There was no indication that she was in distress."

"Whatever." He sighed and resumed his filing. A palm collided with the back of his head.

"Don't you dare start on that self-pity bullcrap," Gibbs growled in his ear. "None of us have time for that." He jerked away and sat in his desk chair. "And why the hell aren't you don't with that filing? Should I get your a baby bottle? You're nursing that job, DiNozzo."

"Sorry, Boss," he called, rubbing his head. "I had to talk to Vance."

"About how lousy you are at filing?"

"No, about Ziva. I think we're in the clear."

"I think you have no damn clue. And I cut the sod for that ramp. When are you coming to help me drill the posts?"

"Uh, tonight?"

"Right answer. Bring pizza."

"I gotta see Ziva..."he started, but Gibbs cut him off.

"We _all_ gotta see Ziver, DiNozzo. Enough with the excuses. File."

Tony's phone beeped. A text from Abby read _get your ass down here_.

"Gotta go, Boss. Abby…"

Gibbs stuffed a Caf-Pow in his face and waved him toward the elevator without looking up from his paperwork.

Abby was pounding hard on the keys at the main terminal, scowling at the monitor.

"What's up?" He asked amiably, and waved her drug of choice under her nose. She grabbed it and drank deeply without turning to face him.

"So that Newmark case? The weapon he used was the same as DeCroo's."

Tony ordered himself not to get nervous. "So? It's just a pipe."

"Two pipes," she corrected. "Of the same length, with the same threading, purchased from the same plumbing supply company."

"But we can't know that they came from the same site unless we collect every single supply order from every single construction site in the area. That's ridiculous. Are there any other connections between Newmark and DeCroo?"

She shrugged. "I haven't worked that angle yet. I had a hard time getting JAG to offer an arrest warrant. I'll do some cross-checking this afternoon. It'll be difficult; DeCroo has no criminal record, and Newmark doesn't have anything else."

"Good luck with that," he scoffed.

"How's Ziva? Is she over the pneumonia yet? Does she miss me?"

"The fever broke early this morning, and I'm sure she misses you. You coming over tonight?"

"Yeah, but only for a little while. Sleeping on that cot really messed up my circadian rhythm."

"She'll be happy to see you, even if it's for an hour or two. Thanks for bringing that lotion for her. Her skin gets really dry from the canned air in that place."

Abby smiled. "She's welcome. And I ordered more. Apparently it's Israel's specialty."

_Actually_, he thought to himself, _superhot ninja girls are Israel's specialty_. He shook his head to clear it and received a funny look.

"Any word on your new digs?" She asked, still puzzled.

"Offer accepted. Know any good contractors? I need to remodel."

"I know some great guys from my Habitat projects; I'll email you a list of names."

He kissed her cheek. "Thanks. Anything else?"

"I'll be at Bethesda by five. You going to Gibbs' tonight?"

He nodded. "Pizza's on me."

The elevator chimed and he skidded aboard, jabbing the bullpen floor.

. . . .

Tony arrived at three-thirty and found Ziva still unconscious, lying on her back and wearing her sleep-splints. The oxygen mask had been replaced with a nasal cannula. He kissed her forehead as a means to check for fever, but her skin was cool, dry, and sweet-smelling—Anya must've applied her moisturizer. He settled into the recliner and opened his phone to play a round of fantasy basketball.

Dr. Monroe walked in before the game even loaded. "Hey," she greeted warmly. "The girl at the desk told me you were back. I want to talk about the tests we did today."

She opened an inter-office delivery envelope and pulled out a series of images: pictures of Ziva's brain, eyes, spinal cord, vertebrae, heart and lungs were hung on the lightboard across from the bed. Dr. Monroe pointed with the end of her pen.

"The remaining fluid in her lung is no longer a threat. The diuretics will dry it up by tomorrow afternoon. John took out the catheter after lunch."

"Great," he smiled.

"The fractured vertebrae are healing nicely, there should be no complications."

He had a feeling she was holding something back. "And what else?"

Dr. Monroe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm still waiting for the MRI images, but I saw for certain today that Ziva sustained some brain damage in the assault."

His heart dropped. "That's why the seizures and language issues?"

"Yes," she said softly, and pointed to the CT scans of her brain. "There is very mild damage to two areas of the right hemisphere—that's where the language centers of the brain are located for most people."

"So what does that mean for her? You've been promising that she can be independent—are you rethinking that now?"

"I don't know. When her brain is quiet, Ziva seems to understand everything that's going on around her—that's a very positive sign. I want to keep up with the Dilantin so it stays that way. But it can take two years for brain-injured patients to regain their full language abilities, and sometimes that doesn't happen at all. She may have trouble with sarcasm, metaphor, written language, idiomatic expressions-"

"She's always had trouble with sarcasm and idiomatic expressions. Trying to get her to understand basic American slang has taken six years. And she still gets it wrong sometimes."

Dr. Monroe looked very interested. "Tell me more about that."

He screwed up his face. "What do you mean? She's a Hebrew speaker. English is about the fortieth language she learned. Of course she's going to struggle with the nuances."

She looked back at the scans, traced one of the images with her finger, then checking her smart phone. She fired off a text message and turned back to him.

"Has Ziva ever suffered a concussion before?"

He nodded. "Plenty of times—she was blown up in Morocco, beaten half to death by kidnapping terrorists in Somalia, knocked out by suspects, took a rabbit-punch once on an aircraft carrier…" He trailed off, thinking about the Port-To-Port killer, and finding Ziva in that old barn.

"So she has sustained many, many head injuries, not all of them severe."

"Yeah, but she was always fine afterward. She'd take an Advil and carry on with her day."

Dr. Monroe nodded. "Of course she did. I'm beginning to think it was not an acute injury, but a series of injuries that lead to this damage. I just sent a text to an SLP I know from way back—she's good. I want her to meet Ziva and make a few assessments."

"So the fact that she can't talk is not related to the whack she took in the woods at Bolling?"

She shook her head. "Dunno yet. I want my associate to see these scans, and I'm going to send them to your friend Tim. I feel like he's going to fill in some blanks for me. Do you have a staff doctor?"

He smirked. "We have a medical examiner named Dr. Mallard."

She grinned back. "I know him. I'll give him a call right away. I can assume he's seen Ziva?"

"Only when she was ordered down to by Gibbs."

"I want to meet everyone together, maybe in a few days—I want a full picture of her life, professional and personal."

"Personal?" He scoffed. "She wouldn't know a personal life if it bit her on the behind. Mossad owned her for ten years."

"Well they don't now," she quipped back. "And it's your job to work on that area. Ever think about getting a pet?"

"No."

"Well now you should. And I don't mean fish."

Ziva stirred, eyelashes fluttering.

"Go to her," Dr. Monroe whispered. "And I'll be back when everyone else gets in."

She disappeared and he grabbed Ziva's hands to take off the splints.

"Hi," he said softly.

"Hi," she said back, eyeing him warily. "Hm?"

"Nothing. Just thinking about how cute you are when you first wake up."

She growled deep in her throat, a guttural warning sound.

He grinned. "What? You are. With your pink cheeks and your eyes all sleepy-you look a little like a kitten."

"Hey!"

"What?" He held up his hands in mock-innocence.

She opened and closed her mouth, ground her teeth, but the words were lost and she snorted in defeat.

"Easy, Tiger. Don't get pissed at me because your brain is a traitor. Dr. Monroe said you're healing nicely. They took the tube out of your back. Can you feel that it's gone?"

She thought hard, rolling her eyes. Her throat clicked. "Yes," she said decisively.

"Good. Everyone is coming over tonight. You want to see them?"

"Yes," she said again, and her eyes brightened.

Abby showed up before anyone else. She had an armload of things with her—a new shirt for Ziva, a soda for Tony, a handful of files for Tim, and a bag for Gibbs that bore the name of a hardware store in Silver Spring.

"I brought more toys, Zivvie," she announced, and rolled a ball across the bedclothes. It was blue, about six inches in diameter, and covered in tiny rubber studs. It landed against Ziva's right hand.

"I brought all sorts of stuff with different textures; Devorah emailed me—she said you didn't get to see her today—and she asked me to bring stuff for sensory input. You're missing a lot of it right now."

Out came a feathery stuffed owl. It, too, landed by Ziva's right hand, followed by a cube made of rough paper, a twelve-sided di from a board game, two towels knotted together to look like a rabbit, a can of modeling dough, and an egg-shaped balloon filled with wet sand that changed shape with pressure.

Abby raised the bed so Ziva could see. "Which one do you want to play with first?"

Ziva examined her cache, eyes settling on the blue ball. Tentatively, she slid her hand towards it, but found she couldn't lift high enough to grab it. She huffed in frustration.

"That one? Here." Abby picked it up with one hand and used the other to turn Ziva's palm upright. She held the ball there until her fingers clenched, dimpling the material.

"See?" Ziva asked, looking to Tony.

"I see that. Can you do that with your other hand?"

"Yes," she said deliberately, rolling her eyes. Abby helped her switch hands. "See?" She said again.

"Great. Now grab the owl."

Tim came in with his laptop. "Hey, guys." He kissed Ziva's cheek, but she was occupied, staring at the toys in her bed. "Hey, how you doing?"

"We're working on sensory processing," Abby informed him. "She's going to grab the owl."

Ziva continued to stare at her stuff, eyebrows furrowed. "Cannot."

"Can't what, Zivvie? Can't find the owl?"

"No," she said sadly. Her eyes grew wet.

Tim dragged his chair close to the bed. "It's ok, a lot of TBI patients have trouble with object naming. The speech-language pathologist will help with that."

"Stop!" She commanded sullenly. She'd begun to hate when he spouted medicalese. "Stop. Stop."

"I'm sorry," Tim apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to ignore you, I just didn't want you to get upset because your words are lost. We'll help you find them. Want to try with me?"

"Ok," she sniffed. Abby wiped the tear tracks off her face.

Tim held up each toy, asking _is this the owl_? until Ziva recognized it.

"Yes!" She declared victoriously, and slid her left hand close to him. He laid it in her palm and she sighed.

"What is that, Ziva?" Tim asked, and she rolled her eyes. "You can get mad all you want, just tell me what that is."

She huffed.

"Is it the owl?"

"Yes," she said slowly, glaring. She wasn't stupid.

"Then tell me that. Say it's the owl."

"C'mon, Zi," Tony prodded. "Tell Tim what you have."

"No," she said quickly.

"Why not? You know it's an owl, just say so."

"Hm." She stared at her hand. The owl stared back. Its blue feathers were soft in her fingers. One slipped between the neoprene wrist support and her palm and stuck there. The name was on the tip of her tongue, but it got stuck somewhere between her mouth and the world.

Gibbs arrived with his coffee. "Nice flamingo, David," he teased gently, and kissed her cheek.

"No," she scowled at him.

"Nice duck, then."

"No."

"Nice buzzard?"

"No."

"Nice chicken?"

"Owl!" Ziva finally snapped, and startled at the cheer that went up from her friends. Then they were all over her—kissing her cheeks, stroking her curls, telling her how great she was, how smart, how strong and brave and persistent. She blushed and blushed, half-hating the fuss, half-loving it.

"What is all the ruckus in here?" Anya demanded, and shooed them away so she could clear Ziva's airway.

"We're just playing a game," Abby informed her, "and Ziva is clearly winning."

"What game?" She wanted to know.

"Owl," Ziva said cheekily, and smiled, eyeing her friends over the rim of the nebulizer mask.

. . . .

Gibbs stirred concete powder into a bucket of water and mixed it with an attachment on his power drill. Tony held the bucket steady and powder drifted on to the sleeve of his old parka. It was a cold evening—leaves drifted from the trees, a mist reflected headlights on the pavement.

"Ok, DiNozzo, use the funnel and pour that around the post. I'll keep it steady."

He poured, and the final post stood upright. The outline of the ramp was visible from the public sidewalk up to the front porch. The steps had been cut away where the ramp would go, but enough space was left for two people to ascend side-by-side.

"This needs forty-eight hours to cure, then we can start building the frame."

Abby was in the basement, staining the rubrails and handrails with waterproofing that matched the rest of the woodwork on the exterior of the house. It, too, would need forty-eight hours to cure.

They chewed on their pizza and drank lager from the bottle.

Gibbs let them enjoy the quiet for a minute, then got down to business. "I got Ziva's benefits straightened out."

"I can pitch in," Abby said immediately. "I mean, I can't afford much, but I'm willing to take on more overtime if she needs it."

Gibbs swallowed the last of his beer and shook his head. "No, you aren't and she doesn't. You work too much as it is, I don't need you taking on extra hours. Between Mossad, IDF, and NCIS, her hospitalization, rehabilitation, and home care are covered. The incidentals are covered by and IDF veterans' fund."

"So for now we're ok?" Tony ventured.

"Yeah, DiNozzo."

"What about…?"

"What about _what_? You're keeping a secret, aren't you? I _knew_ it! Tell me!" Abby swayed a little on her stool.

Tony glanced at Gibbs, who nodded. "Eli gave Gibbs two envelopes full of stuff for Ziva. In one of them was a check for fifty grand."

"Fifty thousand dollars? Are you using that to buy the new house?"

"No," Gibbs said sharply, and she studied her stained hands.

"It's for later," Tony said, but didn't quite know what he meant.

"Rainy-day fund, I get it," she agreed around a mouthful of food. "But I'm still willing to work overtime if you need cash. Or if you need to take some unpaid time off for her."

"Thanks, Abbs." He drew her close and she gave him a hard hug. "We'll be ok. As long as I show my face around the bullpen no one gives me a hard time."

Tim came down the stairs, carting his laptop. Gibbs opened a beer for him and debated dubbing him _Linus_, like the Peanuts cartoon character. Security blanket? Security laptop.

"I spoke to a friend at Johns Hopkins about Ziva's language problems. He saw her scans and said it'll probably be short-lived. He also said her injuries were compounded—under the current contusion is a bunch of old shadows. This might've been a problem for years that no one noticed because she's a pro at hiding weakness."

Abby clicked her tongue. "Poor Ziva. To think that she's been struggling this whole time and no one noticed? That makes me sad for her."

Gibbs rubbed her back. "It's how she was trained," he said quietly.

"Doesn't make it right," Tony fired back. "We could've gotten her help years ago, but her bastard father ground it into her that it's some kind of mortal sin to tell someone that she's in pain."

"Yeah, the guy's an ass," Gibbs agreed, "but she seems to have forgotten that for now. Keep encouraging her to be honest with us and the doc, ok?"

He nodded. "Ok. What else, McHelper?"

"The speech therapist Dr. Monroe wants Ziva to see is the best in her field. She's flying back from delivering a paper in Banff, Alberta to assess her. She's done a ton of work with survivors of traumatic brain injuries." He slowed, sighing. "Her other area of expertise is the speech-language rehabilitation of people—women—who've experienced brutal physical and sexual assaults. The paper she's presenting now is about language therapy techniques for women survivors of terror-based captivity.

"Somalia," Gibbs said quietly. "Does Monroe know?"

"Yes, but not in specific terms. Apparently when Ziva got upset about the hand splints she did some research. It doesn't take a Ph.D to figure it out, Boss." Tim toyed with his beer, peeling and re-sticking the label.

"I may have mentioned it this afternoon," Tony said meekly. "But only in passing. Dr. Monroe wanted a history of her head injuries."

Gibbs nodded and took a long pull on a fresh beer. "Let's watch out, ok? Her rehab isn't about her father, or Somalia. It's about Ziva moving on to have the best opportunities possible. Got me?"

"Yes, Boss," they all chorused, and he gazed around at the mess they'd made.

"DiNozzo, get rid of that pizza box if it's empty."

He scooped it up and thundered up the stairs.

"Abby? Are you done staining? Then seal the can and rinse the brush, they don't grow on trees. Tim? Take your computer upstairs, it'll get broken down here. And tell DiNozzo to go down to McLendin's and get a new set of drill bits. Lazy punk burned out my old ones."

"Boss, are you sure they're-?" Tim rocked on the bottom step.

He sighed, long-suffering. "Yes, they're open this late. Doesn't mean you can take all night to get there. Hurry up—I want to make Ziva a few puzzle boxes to play with. She needs to keep her hands busy."


	10. Thick as Thieves

**"Thank you" times a millionty-billion. You are the greatest readers in the whole tubeverse. I apologize for the delay: Mecha had a rough week. But she loves you forevah-evah. Read on, gentle friends. 'Cause you are all so awesomesauce.**

_Know no future, damn the past._

_ -Natalie Merchant, "Thick as Thieves."_

The NCIS team filed into Dr. Monroe's Bethesda office like obedient schoolchildren. She and Ducky were already hunched over two slim files, comparing forms with pointed fingers.

"Good morning. Ducky and I were just discussing the parts of Ziva's medical history that we have access to. Have a seat everyone, please." Dr. Monroe smiled and gestured to the semi-circle of chairs in front of her.

Everyone sat but Gibbs. He propped himself against the wall, coffee in hand, eyes hooded. "What do we got?"

"Ziva's medical history is complex, to say the least. The films they took in the ER found more than a dozen old injuries that don't match up to any of the reports in her file."

Everyone glanced at each other, unsurprised. "We know she's been hiding stuff, but as long as it wasn't affecting her work performance I couldn't do anything about it," Gibbs said quietly.

"As her superior," Dr. Monroe agreed. "But what about as her friend?"

Punching him in the stomach would have gotten less of a reaction. "I care about my agent, Dr. Monroe. I encourage Ziva—all of them—to take care of themselves. I've ordered them to take days off, to see Ducky, to get checked out if something happens on-scene, but I trust them to do the right thing. If she didn't take care of herself then there was probably an excellent reason why."

Ducky sat forward and propped his elbows on the folders on the desk. "Dr. Monroe, I have treated Agent Gibbs' team for all their minor and even moderate health concerns. If I needed to send any of them for further treatment, I did so. Whether or not they pursued it was their choice."

She nodded, a little contrite. "So you've seen Ziva for how many concussions?"

"Two, both mild. She has an incredibly thick skull."

The double meaning wasn't lost on her. "Her physical therapist may have made similar notes." She smiled a little and was met with five stern faces. "So there is an area of minor damage in her right hemisphere, almost directly over her language processing center. She's displaying moderate aphasia and minor post-traumatic seizures which we're controlling with anticonvulsants. We need to watch her intracranial pressure—the seizures can make fluid gather around her brain. But," she added, waving her hands. "The tests we ran yesterday told us that she's doing fine with the current meds."

Tony nodded, thinking. "So what about her speech? You told me yesterday that you weren't sure if the accident at Bolling caused her aphasia."

"We still don't know," Ducky said gently. He slid a panel of Ziva's scans across the desk. "There are a number of shadows here. Unfortunately the pictures don't give us much as to how old these injuries are. It could be days or years. The speech-language pathologist, Dr. Miller, is stuck in Detroit. Weather grounded her plane. She's flying out as quickly as she can."

Abby scooped up the pictures and held them up to the light. She flipped it, turned it, and scowled. "How many shadows do you see here?" She demanded.

"Either four or five," Dr. Monroe replied. "We're having trouble discerning the layers of damaged tissue."

Tony shifted to look over her shoulder. "What's up, Abbs?"

She shook her head. "I want copies of these," she said to the doctors. "I want to see where her injuries line up with DeCroo's testimony."

It was Tim's turn to sit up and look. He bent his head close to hers and frowned, then sat up sharply. "Abby and I will look into this. I think we should put together a detailed timeline of what happened in those woods. We might have to go back on scene."

Gibbs crossed his arms. "Do it," he ordered sternly, but there was pride in his gaze. "And the minute you got something you call me. Or I'll be on you like a cheap suit."

"Got it, Boss." He and Abby exchanged glances and she shifted slightly, angling her shoulders towards him. Everyone else pretended not to notice.

Dr. Monroe leaned forward. "The good thing is that the aphasia seems to be Ziva's only major setback as of now. Dr. Miller will confirm this when she performs her evaluation."

"What about the long term?" Gibbs asked bluntly. "You think she'll have a normal life?"

She hesitated, mouth open. "I think Ziva can be independent, or nearly so. I don't want to be uncouth or unkind, but you may need to redefine "normal" for her. For yourselves, also."

Abby wiped at her eyes. Tim studied the floor. Tony stood and swayed; the office was too small and crowded to pace. He nodded, eyes inward. Gibbs knew he was trying to work it out in his head.

Ducky rose from his seat. "I need to get back to the morgue before the Davis team brings in Corporal Schmidt for his autopsy. You all know my door is always open-please stop by if you need me. And Abby, I'll have the technician make copies of all of Ziva's scans and get them to you via courier. They should be on your desk by lunchtime."

"Which you will not work though," Gibbs growled. "Any of you. You need to take care of yourselves. So eat and sleep. It's not negotiable."

"Yes, Boss," the chorused.

Tony straightened. His eyes were clearer and his shoulder square. "I'm going to make sure Ziva gets up and at 'em, and then I'll be in. I want to go back on scene with Tim and Abby."

"Fine," Gibbs shrugged. "But who's going to be with Ziver during PT today?"

"Guess that leaves you, Boss," Tony said easily, and smiled.

. . . .

Ziva was dozing when Gibbs got there, breathing through a nebulizer treatment. She smiled when he approached and slid her hands across the covers, silently asking him to trade her sleep splints for the daytime ones.

He took her hands in his for a second. "Thought Justine would do this for you," he grumbled. He unfastened the straps and she stretched, humming a little when the muscles in her forearms tightened.

"You," she mumbled.

"Alright," he sighed, and smiled. She smiled back, eyes clear and bright, and his gut twisted a little. How could they call her brain damaged when she seemed so alert and engaged?

Justine came in when the nebulizer finished and sat Ziva up, propping her elbows on pillows. She closed her eyes, adjusting to the change in position.

"Dizzy?" Gibbs asked, worried.

"Yes," she answered quickly. "But…it…it…" She swallowed and waited, breathing evenly, then sighing. "Ok. Better."

"How long does it last?"

Her mouth opened and she looked at him hard, but no answer materialized.

He shrugged. "Based on that, I'd say maybe ten seconds? Fifteen?"

Ziva looked away.

He prodded her arm. "Try, Ziver. It's not going to get better if you don't work at it."

"I…_I…"_ she stammered. Her face grew red. "_Trying_," she finally blurted. "It's _mixed_. And…lost." She burst into tears of frustration.

Gibbs stood and leaned over her. "Ok," he soothed. "Just so I know you're trying." He reached for her hair but she winced.

"No," she spat.

"Don't touch?"

"No."

"Ok, I won't." He sat back down, troubled. Ziva continued to cry, setting off an alarm on her computer terminal.

Justine rushed in and cleared her airway. "What's wrong, Ziva?" She asked gently. "You're so upset."

"No," she said again, but the ferocity was gone from her tone.

"_No _you're not upset?" She smiled a bit. "Then why are you crying?"

Ziva made a muffled sound of irritation and fisted her hands. Justine washed her face with a damp cloth. "Better?"

"No," she said again, but Gibbs could tell that she was just being petulant.

"You're in a mood today, Ziver. Are you angry?"

"No."

"Sad?"

Silence, then. "Yes."

He softened. "Why?"

She swallowed and Justine had to clear her throat again. "It's…it's…"

He leaned forward and brushed a curl away from her face. She let him this time.

"It's _hard_," she finally managed to say, and sniffled. "I want…normal."

"Me, too," he said honestly. "But that's going to take time and effort."

"I know," she sighed, and looked at him openly. "You going?"

He shook his head. "Nope." It was the longest conversation she'd been able to have yet, and he wanted to keep her going. "You going anywhere?"

"No," she snorted, but held her tears. "Hate it."

"Then use those feelings to get out of here. We want you home."

She hummed in agreement and he knew she'd run out of words. "A special speech pathologist is flying all the way from Banff to see you," he told her.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Yeah," he grumbled. "Apparently you're so special that Walter Reed himself is paying for a plane ticket."

She smiled and rolled her eyes. "What? Don't believe me? Then believe the weather report. She's stuck in Detroit because of snow."

"Oh," she said vaguely. She looked around as if just waking up. "Tony?"

"Working. Someone's got to bring home the bacon."

She wrinkled her nose.

"Find me a better expression and I'll use it," he ordered.

She closed her eyes just as Devorah came in. "Hey Ziv," she greeted warmly. "What's happening?"

Ziva pried her eyes open and smiled. "Hi."

Devorah sat her up higher. "Heard you're moving all kinds of things around. Want to tell me about this?" She held up the owl. Abby had laid it next to Ziva in the bed and the nurses made sure it stayed with her.

"Owl," Ziva said simply and moved her hand in a way that meant she wanted it. Devorah placed it in her outstretched palm.

"Awesome," she praised casually. "Dr. Miller is coming in tomorrow to see you. Make sure you show her that."

"Ok."

"Alright, today we get your lifting your hands together and separately. Then resistance work. But first we stretch everything. Did anyone take the braces off your legs yet?"

"No," Ziva said quietly. She didn't enjoy being handled below the waist, and made that clear when Justine had tried, earlier, to take them off; she'd thrown a brief but effective tantrum and the nurse had immediately backed off, apologizing.

Devorah read her averted gaze. "Should Gibbs stay?"

"Ye…" She pondered for a minute. "Yes. Gibbs you…you…" She reddened, embarrassed again.

"You want him to take them off?"

"Yes." She took in air with a gulp, swallowing to keep her throat clear. She was tired of being suctioned like a newborn.

"Fine. Papa Gibbs, do the honors please. But take that blanket off and she'll kill you."

Ziva growled in demonstration.

He tamped down sadness as he removed the splints and laid her stiff legs back under the quilt. "There you go, little warrior."

She smirked at him then returned her focus so they could do their routine-working the stiffness out of her arms and legs, checking her muscle tone and dexterity, rotating and flexing joints to maintain flexibility. Devorah put a shallow plastic box on her lap, careful to position it so she could see—Ziva couldn't tip her head down because of the CTO brace. She held out a handful of small, lightweight, plastic shapes. Gibbs wondered if she'd stolen them from a baby toy. Or from a baby.

"I'll give you these one by one and you have to put them in the box." She pressed a yellow cube into Ziva's palm. She closed her hand, slid it across the blanket, and deposited it with a shaky release of her fingers.

"Nice," Devorah said. The next one was a red pyramid. "Again."

Ziva did it again. And again. The activity involved a dozen plastic shapes of varying sizes and weights. When the last one hit the box, she glanced up at Gibbs, shy but proud.

"Excellent, Ziver."

She smiled back at him.

Devorah dumped the box over, spilling the shapes. "Now I want you to pick them up and put them in by yourself. Right hand first."

Ziva stared, uncomprehending.

"Right hand, Ziv," she tried again, but her expression didn't change. "Show me the right hand, _sabra_."

Ziva sighed. "No." She couldn't tell which was which and embarrassment turned her cheeks pink.

Devorah tapped her right knuckles. "Use this one. Try again. Show me your right hand."

Frowning, she waved her right fingers.

"Good. Use that one to put the shapes in the box." Devorah glanced at Gibbs and he made a mental note to tell the doctor what he'd just witnessed.

Slowly, _so_ slowly, Ziva wrapped her hand around a ball and dragged it across the blankets, pausing at the edge of the box.

"Lift it, Ziv," Devorah ordered gently.

Ziva strained, frowned, and raised the ball over the lip, dropping it without ceremony. It bounced and rolled into a corner.

"Very nice. Very persistent. Do the rest now."

Sweat beaded on her brow and she scowled, concentrating. It took nearly ten minutes, but she put each object in the box, dropping her hand with a sigh when she finished.

"Bravo!" Devorah cheered, raising and lowering the bill of her hat absentmindedly. She dumped the box again. "Do the left now." Ziva stared again, puzzled, and she backtracked. "So if we just did the right side, _sabra_, which one is left?"

Ziva wiggled her left fingers, smiling again.

"Go to it, Ziv."

The he going was slow, but she succeeded again and Gibbs jumped up from his chair when she finished.

"Proud of you, Ziver," he whispered in her ear, and kissed her on the temple. She closed her eyes and sighed at his proximity. "Thanks," she muttered.

Devorah broke up their sentimental moment. "For a hardass Marine you sure are kissy," she griped.

He pinned her with his trademark glare. "It's my Ziver," he said by way of explanation.

She nodded. "Gotcha." She looked at Ziva with interest—her eyes were sliding shut. "You done, kiddo?"

She forced herself awake. "No. More."

So they practiced lifting and moving things—her owl, her ball, an inflated rubber glove—passing things between hands, turning objects upright and upside-down. Devorah continued to ask if she was tired and Ziva denied it each time, only to have her eyes drift shut and her hands go limp. On the sixth try she could no longer fight it.

"Tired…now," she slurred, and clicked her tongue in frustration.

"I see that," Gibbs said.

Devorah took everything off the bed and turned her on her side. "Get some sleep, _sabra. _You did amazing stuff today. Wait til you show everyone tonight; they'll be as proud as your old mushball here. _Laila tov_," she bid, and waved goodbye.

"Did great today," he whispered. "I'm proud of you."

"Hm," she replied softly.

He stroked her cheek until she was out, fastened her into her sleep splints, and sat back in the recliner. He reached in his pocket to silence his phone, but it rang before he could turn the volume down.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

"Gibbs you need to get down here! Tony and McGee and I were on scene, and we looked around and then we came back and I looked at the weapon and then Ducky and I…"

"Slow down, Abbs! I can't understand a damn thing you're saying."

"You just need to get down here. Please, I mean."

He could hear her bouncing on her toes. "Can't, Abby, Ziver's asleep and I'm not leaving without telling her."

"Tony's on his way. I'm sure he'll get there before she wakes up."

He looked over—Ziva was sound asleep, oblivious to their conversation.

"Fine. I'll leave now and tell the nurses to keep a close eye on her. And calm down—it's going to take me twenty minutes to get there."

"I'll be waiting impatiently," she pouted, and hung up.

He stood and stretched, then stroked Ziva's cheek. "I gotta go, but DiNozzo will be here in a minute, ok?" Her eyelids twitched, but she didn't wake. He kissed her cheek. "Be back as soon as I can," he promised.

. . . .

The lab was humming when he got there—Major Mass Spec was running and had thirty minutes left in the cycle, a scanner beeped and scraped on the desk, and both computers were running database searches on trace elements. Abby was swaying on her feet, biting her nails in front of the biggest monitor.

"What d'ya got, Abbs?" He pressed a Caf-Pow into her hands.

"A _lot_," she exclaimed. Instead of taking a drink, she laid it aside. "Tony, Tim and I went back to the woods." She shivered dramatically. "What a creepy place. I saw he found Ziva—scary, Gibbs!—and we mapped out where Tony cuffed DeCroo." She pulled up a map of Bolling AFB on the plasma, zoomed in on the wooded area along the river. "What we discovered was that there was no second set of tracks into the brush. If DeCroo had been coming from the townhouses like PD said, he's be intersecting Ziva's path in another fifty yards." She plotted both lines on the map. "But he didn't; there were no broken branches, no smashed vegetation…he walked in her footsteps. Literally." Her voice dropped. She stopped bouncing. "He followed her. _Stalked_ her. Like a predator." She whipped around to face him fully. "This was not an accident, Gibbs—this was deliberate. He was targeting her."

He nodded, heart sinking. Things were about to get much more complicated. "Why?"

"Tim took Davis over to Central Detention—they're going to re-interview him. I'm still working on connections between DeCroo and Newmark."

"What's up?"

She scowled. "Didn't Tony tell you? They used the same weapon to commit assaults—or homicide, in Newmark's case—two days apart. I traced it back to the plumbing supply company and got permission to obtain building supply inventories from construction sites on base and off. My radius is five miles."

"How does Ziva factor into any of this?"

Abby ducked her head and took a long sip of Caf-Pow. "Working on that, too. I should have more by tonight."

"She's is expecting you at dinnertime."

"I know, I know. I promised her I'd be there every day after work. I might be late, tonight, though. I'll have to bring a good 'I'm sorry' present."

"I'm sure she'll understand," Gibbs offered. "And let's not share any of this with her for now. I don't think she needs the stress."

"Roger that, Sir."

"And don't call me _sir_."

"Ma'am."

He shook his head, laughed, signed that he loved her, and took the elevator back to the bullpen.

Tim was already at his desk when he got upstairs, engrossed in whatever was on his monitor.

"What happened with DeCroo?"

Tim shook his head sourly. "Nothing. They guy's a mess—he couldn't even form a complete sentence. The defense attorney cut us off because of mental health concerns. He thinks DeCroo is palming his meds."

_Damn_. "What else have we got?"

"Not much—we know Ziva was his target, but we don't know why. We're running background checks and have two interviews scheduled with people who live in base housing."

"You get anything and I want to know about it. And Ziver doesn't know about any of this—let's keep it that way."

"You got it, Boss."

"DiNozzo at the hospital?"

"Yeah. Anya called an hour ago—Ziva woke up and was pretty pissed at your for leaving." He offered a rueful smile. "I know Rule Six says _never apologize_, but I think you owe her one."

"Not gonna happen, McGee."

"You should talk to Tony before you decide that for certain. Or Ziva."

. . . .

Gibbs crept in Ziva's room on cat feet but DiNozzo noticed anyway, standing and skidding into the bathroom as soon as Ziva could see he was there. He sighed—she was hiccupping, face puffy, eyes red.

"Hey, Ziver. Been crying since I left, huh?"

She broke into a fresh wave of tears. "You left!" She said angrily. "You…_left_."

The bathroom door opened and Tony was drying his hands on a paper towel. "Nice, Boss," he complained. "Very, very nice. She woke up the minute after you left, absolutely inconsolable. She cried the whole hour it took me to get here, and then the minute I calm her down, someone comes in to turn her or clear her airway and it starts all over again. Thanks a lot. And I had to whizz the entire time."

"You worked so hard with Devorah that I thought you were really out." He explained to her. "Abby called and I needed to go right away."

"You left," she snarled again.

"I can't be here every second. I had to go. You're an agent, David. You should know how it is."

A shadow passed over her features and she cried harder. Tony laid a cold washcloth on her brow and shushed her, rubbing her shoulder.

Gibbs put a hand on her knee and squeezed. "Hey, Ziver?"

She looked at him, bleary with tears and completely spent.

"I'm sorry," he ground out. "I really am. Next time I'll wake you up and tell you if I have to go."

She stared at him for a long moment, breath hitching in her throat. "Ok," she finally wheezed, and took a breath, then another.

"But promise me this," he continued. "Promise me that you won't get upset like this if I have to go. It isn't fair to you, me, or the team. Can you promise?"

She looked at Tony then back at Gibbs. "Trying," she offered, and hiccupped again. Tony wiped her face with the cloth.

"As long as I know you're trying." He echoed himself from earlier, and smiled at her. "Right?"

"…Right," she coughed, calming down.

"Did you sleep at all today?"

Tony answered for her. "No. Anya came on the floor early and said she's been awake all afternoon. Now we have to keep her awake until at least eight o'clock, or she'll be up all night. And I think you know what happens then."

_A midnight phone call_, Gibbs thought. "Yeah," he said. "I do. Ziver, why don't we practice some of the things you did today in PT?"

She coughed and Tony pushed the nurse call button. "Why don't you calm down a little more first? I think you're all clogged up again."

Anya suctioned her airway and sat her up. "You want to get pneumonia again? She chastised. "No? Then sit up a little and enough crying. Your friends are back and dinner is on its way." She winked and stepped out.

Dr. Monroe knocked on the doorframe. "Ziva? Heard you had a difficult afternoon."

Ziva just looked at her miserably and grabbed for Tony's hand. "Yes," she said softly.

"Can I ask Tony or Gibbs to tell me what happened?"

"Yes."

"Gibbs got called in to work after her physical therapy session. She seemed to be asleep, so he didn't want to wake her." Tony's shoulders worked their way toward his ears. "Five minutes later, I'm guessing, I got a phone call from the nurses saying Ziva was upset and they needed me to get there ASAP. Traffic was terrible—took me an hour to get here, and by then…"

Dr. Monroe nodded, smiling gently. "Ziva, were you afraid when you woke up?"

"No," she scorned.

The doctor smiled a little. "Are you sure?"

Ziva looked away, blushing.

"What were you afraid of?"

"…Alone." Tony tightened his grip on her hand. Gibbs rubbed her knee over the blanket. Dr. Monroe rubbed her shoulder

"You're afraid to be alone. That's understandable-you've lost all your independence. But you're going to get it back-it just takes time. I worry though, Ziva, about these episodes you're having. You're crying so hard that the nurses think you're going to get sick again. I don't want that and I'm sure you don't want that, either. I'd like to add a very mild medication to your regimen that will help with your anxiety. How do you feel about that?"

Ziva met her eyes for the first time. "No," she said clearly.

"I'm not trying to drug you or hurt you, but these panic attacks will eventually. It's a very low dose—you won't even realize it's there."

Ziva looked at Gibbs, then Tony. Both of them nodded.

"Small," she instructed.

The doctor smiled. "It's a very, very low dose. The lowest I can give you as an adult. I want to start it right away because it can take a few days to do its job. Anya will give it to you with dinner."

Gibbs ran a hand over his head. "What are you giving her?"

"The lowest possible dose of Lorazepam. It might take twenty-four hours to work, but we might be able to lower the Dilantin if it works. I think the neurological storming has everything to do with these cry-fests. Her brain is working double time to fix itself and it's making her a little off-kilter."

He nodded. Tony braided Ziva's hair and secured it with an elastic. She smiled up at him, eyes vacant.

Gibbs dropped his voice to a low rumble. "My toughest agent couldn't tell her left hand from her right this afternoon. What's going on in her head?"

"A lot," Dr. Monroe said honestly. "But all we can do for now is monitor her. Any changes and we'll know about it right away."

He stepped closer to her. "Listen to me, Doc. My agent needs to go home talking, eating, living in the world like a real person. I'll help you, my team will help you, but you need to make that happen."

She nodded. "We're going to get her into a longer PT/OT routine as soon as she can tolerate being upright for more than twenty minutes. Miller will evaluate her tomorrow and we'll start dealing with her language problems immediately. Keep her friends coming every day—it's motivational." She paused. "I would put her in a therapy program but with her verbal issues it would be more frustration for her."

"She _is_ in a therapy program," Gibbs countered.

"Talk therapy, Agent Gibbs. She needs to deal with what happened to her."

He smirked and gestured to Tony. "That's what _he's_ for. And Abby."

"And you," Monroe interrupted. "You've become a surrogate father."

He rolled his eyes. "She needs someone to have her six."

"So do you," she whispered, and smiled. "I'll order the meds—we can put it right in her nutritional diffusion. Go to your family."

Gibbs went back inside to find Tony leaning over the bedside rail, whispering in Ziva's ear. She was smiling, tongue clicking, eyes bright and focused. He supposed the storm moved out.

Abby nearly body-checked him from behind.

Tim followed, smiling shyly. "Hey, Gibbs. Abby's very excited," he apologized.

As usual, she had two large shopping bags with her. "Hi, guys! Ziva, I bought you some yoga pants and my friend stitched a hole in them for your catheter tube. Want to try them on? I can help you."

Ziva flushed red. "Abby…no."

"What? They'll be more comfortable because there are no snaps on the side to dig in when they turn you. Just try them, please?"

"_Abby_," she said again. "Don't…"

She shrugged. "Don't what, Zivvie? I just want you to be comfortable."

She reddened further. "Don't…_say_."

Abby shrugged again. "Don't talk about your catheter?" She swung her free arm at Gibbs, Tony, and Tim. "These guys aren't exactly polite company."

Ziva closed her eyes. "Stop!"

"I'm not trying to embarrass you, Ziva, but these things are just part of the plan now. It's fine—no one's going to make fun of you."

"We would never," Tony vowed, and kissed her knuckles.

A tear slipped down Ziva's cheek; she was beyond humiliated. How could Abby talk about her basic bodily functions so frankly, and in front of everyone?

Tim grabbed her other hand. "Hey, these are things that you have no control over. A catheter or a feeding tube is not scary for us, or embarrassing, or gross. We know why you need these things. Abby is just trying to tell you that she loves you. If you want to change then we'll call Anya and step out."

"Ok," she grumbled tearfully.

Abby pressed the call button. "Did anyone put your witch hazel on today?"

Tony wiped her eyes, pressing the cool cloth to her cheeks. "No," she said around it.

"Well we'll just have to fix that."

The men left and Anya came in to help her get changed. "These are great," she praised thoughtfully. "We can put her splints on over them instead of under. With these and the pressure stockings we can be almost positive that they won't chafe or give her pressure sores."

Abby was already dabbing witch hazel on Ziva's hip. "I don't think that's the case up here. Look."

Anya clucked sadly. "That's a bedsore. We'll just keep her on her other side until the redness fades away. Does that hurt, Ziva?"

"Yes."

They rolled her onto her left side and she swallowed reflexively. Her left side faced the wall, not the door. She couldn't see who was coming in, leaving her vulnerable, exposed.

Abby snapped a fresh sheet over her and replaced the quilt, tucking it around her in a cocoon. "How's that? Better?"

Her eyes darted. "Yes."

Abby's narrowed. "You don't like this. You think someone could sneak up on you."

Ziva's gaze wavered. "Yes."

"Well, they won't. I'll make sure Tony stays all night so you feel safe."

She gave a watery smile. "Ok."

Abby took both her hands and rubbed gently. "Listen, Zivvie, we love you. All this stuff is helping you get better, and we get that. Be patient with yourself, ok?

"Ok." Ziva agreed, and allowed Anya to clear her airway. "Love…too," she mumbled, and joy, not shame, colored her apple cheeks.


	11. Pendulum Swinger

**Readers, readers readers! You are so fabulous! I love your type-y fingers and read-y eyes! I love your comments and alerts. I am really anxious to keep the ball rolling after my writing stay-cation, so here is another chapter for your enjoyment. Read on. And thanks times fifty-eleven.**_  
><em>

_. . . ._

_You work it the system; you see possibilities_

_ And your glistenin' eyes show the hell you're gonna give 'em_

_ -Indigo Girls, "Pendulum Swinger."_

_. . . ._

Tony woke up to a gentle shaking of his shoulder. Justine was standing over him, smiling in the dim early-morning light.

"Morning," she whispered. "I just got a call from Dr. Monroe. Dr. Miller is on her way over—she should be here in about an hour. I was told to get you both up and moving."

He smiled and turned over. The cot was hard and narrow and the thin mattress did little to protect his joints from the bars beneath it. He felt achy and tender.

"Mmph. I'm up."

Justine was making a few notes in Ziva's file. "No nightmares, huh? She made it the whole way through?"

He nodded, drowsy. "Yeah, she slept like a rock. Maybe we should skip the afternoon nap more often."

She chuckled. "I don't think anyone wants a repeat of yesterday. Go grab a coffee while I take care of her."

"I can't leave if she's still asleep." He stood, stretched, and grabbed Ziva's right hand in his own, ignoring the splint. "Hey, ninja. Time to wake up."

She moaned and wrinkled her nose.

"Hey," he said again. "C'mon. It's time. You slept really well and now it's morning."

She propped up one lid and gave him a dirty look.

He stroked her cheek. "Zee-vah," he sang. "Good morniiiiing."

"Ugh," she gurgled. "Stop. Tired."

"I know, but Dr. Miller is on her way. You need to get up and get through your morning routine before she gets here."

"Ok." She swallowed roughly and opened both eyes, blinking hard.

"Listen, I need a coffee. You'll be fine while I run downstairs, right?"

"…right," she echoed. "Go. Fine."

He smiled. "That's my brave girl. Back in five, ok?"

"Yes." She smiled and opened her mouth so Justine could clear her airway.

He kissed her brow and left at a jog.

Gibbs met him at the coffee cart. "Got called in. Miller's on her way."

Tony nodded and paid for his cup. "Yeah, Ziva's getting her catheter changed now."

"No meltdown?"

"Nope," he replied proudly. "Said I could go. Didn't even cry."

Gibbs smirked. "Let's see how it is when we get back."

Ziva was just starting her nebulizer treatment when the returned. Gibbs kissed her cheek. "How you doin' Ziver?"

She smiled and continued to breathe deeply.

"This is the first time in two days I've seen you not crying," he teased gently. "Think you can go the whole day?"

She smiled brighter and rolled her eyes.

Tony sat stiffly in the recliner, elbows on his knees, coffee in his right hand. "I'm tired today. Maybe I'll throw a tantrum."

Gibbs delivered a stiff head-slap. "Won't get you anywhere, DiNozzo."

He winced. "Except to the cot for a nap."

Ziva gave Gibbs a look and held out her hands; again, she'd waited for him to switch her wrist supports. He opened his mouth to tease her about it, but a soft voice stopped him.

"Hello?" Dr. Miller was standing just inside the doorway. She was younger than any of them expected—almost baby-faced except for the very fine lines around her blue eyes. She smiled warmly and adjusted the laptop and files on her hip, then reached out to shake everyone's hands, Ziva included.

"I'm Dr. Petra Miller, the Speech-Language Pathologist Dr. Monroe recommended. It's a pleasure to meet you all. How are you, Ziva?"

"Ok," she mumbled from beneath the mask. Steam rose from the vents and clouded her vision.

Dr. Miller clucked and Tony and Gibbs exchanged glances; all of Ziva's other doctors were direct, frank, casual. Miller was soft, gentle, even maternal.

She delicately adjusted the nebulizer mask. "I'm going to ask your friends a few questions while you're finishing that, ok? Then you and I will spend most of the morning together."

Tony went on alert. "We need to stay."

Miller smiled. "Of course! I'd never ask you to leave." She sat, crossed her legs, and opened her laptop. "So, can you tell me a little about Ziva's strengths?"

Tony smiled. "She speaks six languages. She's fast, sharp, funny, and a little quirky. She's remarkably gentle for someone who was trained to kill. Literally. She's equally demanding and generous."

Dr. Miller turned to Gibbs. "And your thoughts?"

He nodded. "She's persistent, driven, a conscientious team member. Her PT called her a good student."

She nodded. "That's what I've heard. Do you think her injuries have made an impact on her personality?"

"She's incredibly frustrated," Gibbs blurted. "Impatient, quick to anger, crying more than I've ever seen."

Tony looked down at the floor. "She's never been fearful, but since she got hurt it's like she's afraid of her own shadow. She hates to be alone, hates to be touched below the waist. She's into throwing tantrums to get what she wants."

Miller took notes as they spoke. "This all sounds like frustration to me. Couple that with the head injury and you've got a recipe for depression, anxiety, anger, sadness. Has anything helped her moods?"

"Constant company," Tony answered quickly. "Devorah is great—Ziva was really athletic before the accident and now that she's immobile I think therapy is the only thing she looks forward to."

"And Abby," Gibbs reminded him. "Our forensic scientist has made Ziva into a mission. She brings toys, clothes, blankets and mementos from home—anything she thinks is going to make her happy."

Dr. Miller smiled, nodded. "I understand that need to help. What's her line of injury?"

"T1/C7" Tony supplied. "They told us she was paralyzed from the chest down, but she has sensation to the hips. Abby discovered that early on."

"She feels it when Devorah stretches her legs," Gibbs cut in. "Says it's 'hot'."

Dr. Miller glanced at Ziva, who was dozing. "How is she coping with the paralysis?"

Gibbs and Tony looked at each other. Tony shrugged. "She hasn't mentioned it much, other than to tell me '_I do not walk_.' I uh…got a little sentimental one day. Told her I didn't care that she couldn't walk. She didn't seem to, either."

She smiled. "Has Dr. Monroe recommended a psychiatrist for her? Or even a licensed clinical social worker? She might need some mental health support."

Gibbs scrubbed at the back of his neck. "She's on Lorazepam for her anxiety. She can barely string two words together, what the hell kind of help is a headshrinker going to be?"

"You'd be surprised at how well she'll communicate if you give her time. She hasn't kept you guys guessing, has she?"

"No," he grumbled. "But we know her, it's not like she's some stranger we're trying to figure out. She's…my kid."

Miller smiled. "You sound like a very good father." She closed her file. "I'm going to do a brief exam now and then move on to the verbal and oral-motor portion of the evaluation. Ziva, are you ready to talk to me?"

Justine came in and lifted off the nebulizer mask and replaced it with an oxygen cannula.

"Ok," she agreed easily.

"I'm going to ask your friends to help me with this first part. I need you to lie down and we'll take off your brace." She was already flattening the bed. "I need to touch your throat and mouth. Let me know if I make you uncomfortable."

Dr. Miller snapped on a pair of latex gloves while Tony and Gibbs turned Ziva on her back and removed her brace. Gibbs slid a rolled hand towel under her neck for support; they couldn't steady her head by hand if the doctor was doing an exam.

"Ready?"

"Yes," Ziva said steadily

Dr. Miller probed her throat and neck, checked her lymph nodes, asked her to swallow a few times. She felt along her jaw and all the way behind her ears. Satisfied, she stepped back and smiled.

"You're doing very nicely. No trouble swallowing means you should be back on a regular diet sooner than you think."

Ziva smiled and blinked up at her.

As when she'd woken from the Propofol sedation, Miller had her smile, puff her cheeks, stick out her tongue, and blow kisses to Gibbs and Tony.

"Great job so far. We're almost done. I need to look inside you mouth—feel around in there to make sure there's no damage to your oral surfaces or any blockages in our way. Can I do that now?"

Ziva sucked in a breath and looked away. "Ok."

"I'll be very gentle," she said softly, and used her index finger to prod delicately at her tongue and palate. She'd barely touched anything but Ziva's eyes grew wet, her breathing ragged. Tony stood, expecting her to fall apart, but Miller waved him down.

"Ok, too scary. I'll stop." She snapped off her gloves and stroked Ziva's hair. "It's ok, I won't hurt you. Shh."

Remarkably, Ziva let Dr. Miller comfort her, regaining her self-control quickly. Only a few tears escaped before she sighed and looked up.

"Ok," she said quiet. "I…ok."

Miller nodded. "How about I just look inside? I won't touch anything."

"Ok."

She retrieved a light and a tongue depressor and started over, explaining each gentle ministration as she went. Ziva was calm, flinching only once when the stick touched a particularly sore spot on the right side.

She pulled back and snapped off the light. "Ziva, how many times have you had tonsillitis?"

Her brow furrowed. "Hm?"

"Your tonsils are enlarged and full of holes which tells me you have a long history of tonsillitis. Do you get a lot of sore throats?"

Ziva looked away.

"Answer her," Gibbs jibed gently. "No secrets, Ziver."

"Yes."

"How often?"

"Dunno," she muttered.

"Ziver," he warned.

She huffed in aggravation. "Dun_no_," she insisted.

Dr. Miller rubbed her arm. "How about snoring?"

"Oh. My. God," Tony drawled. "You have no idea. It's so loud—she snorts and snores and kicks like a mule. We had to do a stint in Paris, once, and I would've asked for a separate room on another floor if it wouldn't have blown our cover."

"That sounds like sleep apnea. Do you get a lot of colds, Ziva?"

"Constantly," Tony answered again. "Every other month during the winter."

She shot him a hard scowl and he shrugged. "What? She needs to know, Zi."

Dr. Miller nodded again. "I will continue on with my eval, but I would like to schedule a tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy ASAP. Part of the problem is that her tonsils are getting in the way—that's why her voice is higher and more nasal than usual. It also explains the snoring, the poor sleep, the colds, the sore throats and some of the disprosody—her weak oral muscles can't compensate for the swollen nodes. It's also likely that they had a hand in the pneumonia; tonsils can harbor a lot of bacteria. Recovery from the surgery should take about two weeks and then we'll start on the treatment plan. Let's get you up so we can continue. Tony?"

He replaced the CTO quickly and easily then elevated the head of the bed. Ziva smiled at him, grateful and a little impish.

"What?" He asked innocently.

"Ha…Ha-ir. You."

He brushed a hand over his head and laughed—his hair was standing on end, sticking out behind his ears, his prized forelock hanging down between his eyes. "Funny girl," he snarked. "You just wait; you'll get your dues."

"Ok, Ziva," Dr. Miller redirected. "I am going to hold up a card with a picture on it. You tell me what you see." She held up a picture of a bird.

Ziva stared, squinted, hummed. "Bird," she finally sighed.

Tony silently congratulated her.

The next image was a tree and Ziva said so without hesitation.

The third was a house and she looked at Tony happily. "Home," she declared.

The fourth was a dripping faucet and she stuttered, looking wide-eyed at all three expectant faces.

"It's ok Ziver," Gibbs offered. "That's not an easy one."

She gave them a sad smile. "More," she said clearly and with a confidence she didn't feel.

The next was a guitar. Ziva clicked her tongue in frustration and furrowed her brow.

"You know what this is," Dr. Miller chided.

"Yes," Ziva sniped back, but she could only force out the first _g_ sound. She blew out a breath, furious.

Dr. Miller flipped to a familiar sight.

"Owl!" Ziva crowed happily, and scanned the room for hers. "Mine."

Tony retrieved it from the rolling bedside table. "Here. Though I suppose you should give it a name if you're going to claim it like that."

"Shush," she huffed. "More."

Dr. Miller flashed a truck, a car, a fish, a bed, a shirt, and a bucket. Ziva managed to name only the fish and the car; the others were lost between her brain and her mouth. Her frustration increased, and with it came fatigue. She flagged, sagging against the mattress. Tony stroked her arm.

"We're running at a thirty-five percent success rate," the doctor said, and noticed the fallen faces around her. "That's pretty good, actually. I was expecting less than twenty. Let's move on quickly and then she can take a nap."

She laid five of the cards on the table-a table, a cat, a strawberry, a bowl, and a computer-and asked Ziva to pick the bowl.

Like her experience with the owl, she bit her lip and balked. "No".

"Can't find the bowl?"

"No."

The doctor moved the cards around. "How about now. Can you find the bowl?"

"Hm." Her fingers worried the edge of the quilt. "No."

"Ok. I'm going to put these away, but I want talk a little bit first."

Ziva looked at her quizzically.

Dr. Miller reached down and took both of her hands. "So I'm an SLP but my specialty—the reason I was in Canada—is women survivors of terror and terror-based captivity. Do you know what that means?"

She swallowed thickly. "Yes."

Dr. Miller nodded. "So you know why I was called?"

"Yes," she said again, and breathed hard through her nose.

"Ziva?" The doctor asked gently. "Dr. Monroe and Dr. Mallard told me a little bit about what you went through in Africa a few years ago. I don't want to presume, but I think it has a lot to do with the anxiety you're having. Am I wrong?"

Her eyes filled again. "No."

Miller slid a hand down Ziva's arm—a calming, quiet gesture of support. "I understand how your mobility issues bring up all those old memories. You thought you were done with all of that, and then _bam_, it all comes rushing back because you can't scratch your nose or check your watch. The helplessness, fear, loss, sadness, abandonment—I understand completely why you wouldn't want to be alone."

Ziva sniffed, fat crocodile tears sliding down her cheeks. "Abba left," she stuttered.

"I heard he went back to Israel. But what about that Abba?" She pointed at Gibbs, who smirked and sipped his coffee. "Is he going to leave?"

Ziva eyed him slowly, sideways. "Hm."

"You know the answer to that, David," he huffed. "What did I tell you yesterday and the day before…and the day before that?"

"Back," she said casually.

"And did I come back?"

"Yes," she replied slowly, squinting at him.

"So?"

"No…left."

"What am I?" Tony scoffed. "Chopped liver?"

"Ack," Ziva nearly gagged, then sobered. "No. No. Left."

"Another point for the Mossad assassin," he deadpanned. "No, Zee-vah, I'm not leaving. I don't care if I have to tell you a million times—I'm not going anywhere. Except to the bathroom occasionally." He shot her a deliberate look, half-desperate, half-wry.

She giggled and coughed. "Ok," she agreed.

Dr. Miller cleared her airway like an expert. "I'm going to talk to Dr. Monroe about your surgeries and come up with a plan. You need to take a nap—Devorah is coming at two. Want me to help you get settled?"

Ziva looked at Gibbs and Tony. "No. Thanks."

"Sure. Get some rest."

Dr. Miller left, and Tony and Gibbs turned her to the side. She was drifting on the Dilantin, blinking at them with a tiny smile on her face.

"Sleep, David," Gibbs ordered. "We'll be here."

Tony sat back in his seat. "How do you feel about her having those operations? Think she'll be ok?"

"They're minor," Gibbs replied smoothly. "If she wasn't already here they'd be an outpatient procedure. It'll actually be easier with the feeding tube; we won't have to worry about getting her to eat or drink, post-op. Kelly had it done. Took her two weeks to get back on her feet. And Ziva's tougher than she was."

"You're probably right," Tony sighed. "I just don't like the idea of her having another procedure. But Miller and Monroe are good; they wouldn't do anything to jeopardize her long-term recovery. I should trust them."

"You don't have a choice," Gibbs growled.

"And there's that," Tony shrugged.

Tim tiptoed in, smiling. "Hey, I just saw Dr. Miller in the hall. She said Ziva did great today. And the tonsillectomy is a good thing; she'll probably get better control of her secretions."

Tony laughed. "You're always talking about secretions, McGoo. You're worse than the respiratory therapist."

He blushed. "It's an important part of her care, Tony. Do you want her to get sick again?"

"_No,_ I _don't_, McBooger. I just need to joke once in a while because I'm likely to lose my mind if I don't."

"Enough, DiNozzo," Gibbs said without malice. "What d'ya got, McGee?"

"I ran a background check on Thomas DeCroo. He's clean as a whistle but his brother, Carlos, is bad news. He's been running with the Carvelli boys of Baltimore; racketeering, money laundering, hits for hire, minor narcotics charges." He produced a photo from the fold of his laptop. "We picked him up on a drug deal gone wrong in Rock Creek Park. Remember the McGinnis case?"

Gibbs studied the photo; they'd questioned him, but found no reason to make an arrest. "Yeah."

"Well we picked up one of the Carvellis—Gianni—when we questioned Carlos DeCroo about Private McGinnis. And if you remember correctly, Carvelli got out of hand."

Gibbs sat back and sighed. "Ziva subdued him in Interrogation. You think this is payback?"

"Looks like it. Carvelli and DeCroo are in the wind. Newmark is up for questioning again tomorrow. His lawyer is difficult to get ahold of."

Tony leaned forward. "I can't be on this one."

"No, you can't," Gibbs agreed. "I'll tell Vance to pull your card. But McGee, get Davis' crew out on—"

"Already done, Boss. They're tracking him now. I bet we'll see them back in DC tomorrow night or early Friday morning."

"Good," Gibbs nodded. "Let him stew at Central for the weekend. Loosen him up a little bit."

Tim shrugged. "You off this, too, Boss?"

"Guess so. I can't be two places at once, and being her healthcare proxy means my interest is too vested."

Tim nodded. "Wish I could say the same. I need to get back—Abby and I are looking over Ziva's scans this afternoon."

"Keep us in the know," Gibbs said, and waved.

. . . .

The lab was silent, uncharacteristically so, when Tim returned. The music was off, Major Mass Spec hulked silently against the wall, and only on CPU hummed through a search. Abby was swaying by the lightboard, staring at Ziva's images and wringing her hands. She jumped when he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Did you see these?" She blurted. "The x-rays? Broken fingers and toes, broken radii, broken ribs, a missing molar, tendon damage in her wrist, right shoulder, and hip." She spun to face him. "And those are just the things that went unreported. She's broken both collarbones, her right scapula, her left tib-fib. And her head is mess." She switched the images. "Look at these scars on her skull—four of them over the parietal area—they're places where blood flow was interrupted. She's been through hell, Timmy. Literally. And now, with what we know about, DeCroo and the Carvellis, I'm sadder." She sighed and nuzzled against his chest. "What did Dr. Miller say?"

He wrapped both arms around her and squeezed. "That she's got expressive aphasia. And apparently her snoring is a result of sleep apnea—she's having a combined tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy either tomorrow or over the weekend."

Abby gasped. "That's horrible! I can't even give her popsicles!"

"I know, but it'll be a really good thing in the long run. She'll get fewer colds and her speech will improve faster, post-recovery."

"Fine," she sniffed, and stepped back. "Can I still see her tonight?"

"I don't see why not. She loves when you visit. Should we pick up Thai for everyone?"

She shook her head. "Gibbs won't eat Thai. We need to go with either Chinese or pizza. You pick."

He shrugged. "I forget sometimes that he eats like a college freshman." He did a time-check on his phone. "I need to write up a few reports. Should I come down at five and we'll go together?"

She opened her hands. "But then I can't stop to buy her presents."

"I don't think Ziva needs any more presents. She's pretty busy as is."

Abby pouted. "Timmy, it sucks to be in the hospital. If I don't bring her presents it'll just suck even more. Oh hey! Gibbs finished those puzzle boxes! Let's stop at his house and get them!"

"We'll get one," he conceded. "But I think we should save the rest for her surgery recovery. I think she'll need something to do in those two weeks. She'll have PT, but not Speech, and I'm willing to bet she'll get bored."

"Do you think Dr. Miller will do that singing therapy after recovers? Maybe I should put some new songs on her iPod. Like Primus or Plastic Death Spoons or Shredded Breakfast. Something really easy to follow."

Tim was anxious to get back to his desk. "I don't know, Abby. I just need to get my work done and then we can go ask."

She slammed her hand on her mouse. "Fine, go. I'll finish this search and we'll to the hospital. Just be quick. She's probably sick of Tony and Gibbs by now. How many hours of coffee and bad jokes can she possibly stand?"

. . . .

"Zivvie! How was your day? How was Dr. Miller? Tim said she's really nice! Is she really nice?"

Ziva smiled once the shock of Abby's entrance wore off. "Yes. Nice. And…and…"

Abby opened the takeout bags from How Lee and passed around entrees. "And what? Oh, I know about your surgery tomorrow. My little brother had his tonsils and adenoids out when he was in middle school. He got to eat all the popsicles and ice cream he wanted afterward." She whipped around to Gibbs, raising her hands in question. "Can she have popsicles?" She shrugged and dropped her hands. "Tell me they won't do the surgery unless she can have popsicles."

He stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, grounding her and stopping the outburst. "Abby, we need to see how well she's breathing and coughing afterward. If she can swallow without making them worry about aspiration then she can have popsicles after surgery."

"Yay! Ziva, popsicles! I'll only bring you red ones—they're the best. Unless there's another flavor you like."

"No," she said. "Red."

"Ok, great. Hey, I brought you something to play with."

Gibbs cleared his throat.

"If you're up to playing, of course."

"Yes," she said immediately. "What?"

Abby rolled the table on casters up to the bed. "This is a puzzle box—Gibbs made it for you. Isn't it pretty? I did the staining myself. You have to take it apart and then put it back together. Looks easy, right? Wrong. They're pretty tricky. Want to try?"

"Yes," she agreed readily, and held out a hand. "Mine."

Abby handed it to her with a flourish. Ziva pondered, turning it in her hands. She disassembled it quickly and laid the pieces on the roll-up table.

"Wow," Tim mused. "You are really doing great in PT. Look at your dexterity—it's getting harder to tell that you've had a high spinal cord injury."

She sniffed. "Devorah," she said haughtily. "It's…hard."

"But you're a champ," Tony said around a mouthful of shrimp-fried rice.

She looked over her puzzle pieces, took a breath, and closed her eyes. Tim grew worried and leaned forward, but Tony waved his hands.

_She's fine_, he mouthed, a half-chewed bamboo shoot sliding onto his chin. He shoveled it back in with the flat edge of his chopstick.

Sure enough, Ziva opened her eyes and slowly, almost cautiously, reassembled the puzzle box, sliding it across the table after she clicked in the last piece.

"Did it," she gloated, eyes roving.

Tony cupped her cheek. "That's my genius ninja. Right? You are so great, Zi." He kissed her gently.

"Gibbs," Abby worried. "You need to make more of those. Harder ones, too. I mean, she just did that in about two minutes."

Ziva gave him a soft look. "Thanks."

He stroked her hair, kissed her ear. "Welcome, Ziver. You need to get to sleep; they're coming to get you at six tomorrow."

She looked away. "Hm."

"It takes less than an hour. You'll be back there before DiNozzo even wipes the drool from his face."

She smiled. "Yes."

"No tears, ok? You've done really well today. Let's finish out strong."

She me his gaze with clear, steady brown eyes. "Ok."

"That's my girl. I'm going home to my boat." He kissed her cheek. "Sleep tight, and you know who to have them call if you wake up."

"Fine," she said seriously, meaning _I will be fine_.

DiNozzo shouldered Gibbs, playfully trying to push him aside. "Am I staying here tonight, Zi?"

She looked at him. "Hm. Small?"

"For a little while?"

"Yes."

"Sure, I'll stay til you're sleeping." Her eyes began to drift, shifting around the room aimlessly. "Which won't be long from now," he muttered.

Tim stood and joined the crowd around the bed, kissing Ziva on the cheek and running a finger under the tension strap on her wrist support. "Sorry we couldn't stay too long, Ziva. We'll be back tomorrow morning to check on you. Can we bring you anything special?"

"No," she slurred.

"Ok, goodnight." He motioned for Abby, who moved the table and puzzle box away.

"Alright, Zivvie, be brave tomorrow and I'll be ready with popsicles when you wake up."

"Ok," she smiled, but it faded. "Tired."

"Goodnight," they all chorused, and left with promises of _tomorrow morning_ on their lips.

Tony lowered the bed, tugged the quilt higher, and slid off her day splints. "They're gonna cut you off at midnight," he explained, nodding to the blue diffuser box.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes."

He gave her a knowing half-smile. "You'll be off that thing soon enough. I'm excited for you to start Speech. I'm sure you have a million things to tell me." He jerked his head up to meet her eyes. "You know all the juicy hospital gossip. Maybe when you get out of here you can sell it to a TV writer, make a cool hundred grand. Sound good?"

"Yes."

"Good." He tightened the sleep splints enouh to keep her steady, but not tight enough to cut off her circulation. "Now sleep, ninja. I love you." He kissed her mouth and rested his head close to hers; it was the most intimate position they could manage.

"Love…too," she slurred, and slid her hand beneath his.


	12. She's Got Her Ticket

** I. am. in. shock. The alerts, the reviews, the… things and things. Do you guys have any idea what just happened here? ANY IDEA? It's crazy. And I am awed and in love every single time. Apology here: I am sorry this is late in its appearance; I thought I would have much more time this week than I actually did. Apology accepted? Please? Ok, good. I made this one extra-long to say 'thanks for not giving up on this.'**

_Some folks call her a runaway, a failure in the race._

_she knows where her ticket takes her; she will find her place in the sun._

_-Tracy Chapman, "She's Got Her Ticket."_

Tim tiptoed into the ENT surgical waiting room and found Gibbs and a sleeping Tony were the only occupants.

"Here, Boss," he whispered, and handed him a cup of coffee.

Gibbs nodded his thanks.

Tim took a seat. "Charleston PD called me late last night—they arrested Carlos DeCroo for forgery and possession of a controlled substance. We sent transport down to pick him up. They'll be here by ten tonight."

Gibbs nodded again, swallowing.

"Any word from the surgeon? "

He sipped and shook his head. "It's just a hospitalist. Monroe is still her primary."

As if conjured, Dr. Monroe came through the door in scrubs and a bandana. "She did great," she announced, hands held palm-up. "And she's in recovery right now."

Tony popped up, eyes slitted. "Undercover?"

She chuckled. "No, Tony. We just brought Ziva into recovery. Want to help me bring her around?"

He was on his feet in a flash, swaying and rubbing his head. "Yeah, where is she again?"

She lead him through the doors and down a short hallway to a recovery room, where Ziva was swaddled in warm blankets and receiving oxygen via a rebreather mask.

"Wake up, Zi," he said softly. He threaded his fingers in the roots of her hair, rubbing her scalp gently. "Can you open your eyes?"

Her brow creased. Two tears rolled across her temples and onto the rolled towels that kept her head from moving—they'd taken off the CTO when they prepped her for surgery.

Dr. Monroe checked her vitals. "Her blood pressure is pretty high; she's probably in pain. We'll push some Percocet and a little more Lorazepam."

Tony smoothed the wrinkles in Ziva's forehead. "Can you open your eyes, beautiful?"

She blinked up at him, sleepy and unfocused.

"Good job, Ziva," Dr. Monroe congratulated. "You're did really well and now we're going to take you back to your room. Should I have your friends meet us there?"

"Yeth," Ziva croaked.

Tony's own heart rate increased. "Why is she lisping? Is something wrong? She's not having a seizure, is she?"

The doctor smiled. "She'll sound funny for a few days-might lose her voice altogether. They had to clamp her mouth open for the procedure, so her tongue and cheeks are very sore and swollen. I'll have Justine and Anya keep her mouth irrigated. If she can swallow in an hour or two then you can give her ice chips, maybe a half-thawed popsicle."

He rubbed the round of her cheek with his knuckle. "Want a popsicle, Zi?"

"Yeth," she croaked again, and a small smile appeared on her face.

Dr. Monroe rubbed her shoulder gently. "Tony, why don't you head back to Ziva's room and we'll join you in a little bit. Have her blankets ready and tell Justine to get her treats out of the freezer."

"Copy that," he said happily. He kissed her on the nose. "See you down there, sweet cheeks."

. . . .

Two muscular attendants in blue scrubs were moving Ziva's bed into position when Tony and Gibbs walked in. Amy and Dr. Monroe were conferring quietly over Ziva's online charts.

"Hi everyone," Amy said warmly. "I'm just going over her progress—she's come a long way in a very short time."

Pride bloomed in Gibbs' chest. "Yeah, she has. Should I put her sleep splints on?"

Dr. Monroe blanched. "We had to take everything off for surgery and she got a little combative when we tried to get her 'dressed' again. I would wait until she's awake."

"I do need to secure her," Amy said quietly. She pulled a roll of medical tape from her pocket, peeled off a length as long as her arm, and, wrapping an end around each bedrail, used it to secure Ziva's head between the towels.

Tony's jaw fell. "What are you doing? She'll be furious."

She raised an apologetic hand. "Can't be helped. I need to make some adjustments to her brace—the doctors need to be able to get into her mouth, and they can't with that setup. I either have to change it, or bring her a different model altogether." She held up the CTO. "Back by the end of the day."

Tony sighed and ran a hand over Ziva's puffy cheek. "Sweet cheeks, are you going to wake up anytime soon?"

She batted one eyelash at him and moaned, wincing.

Dr. Monroe rang for the nurse with one hand and laid two fingers on Ziva's throat with the other. "Can you swallow for me, Ziva?"

She swallowed and began to cry without opening her eyes.

Tony shushed her, stroking her hair above the tape. "It's ok. We'll get you some ice to suck on."

Dr. Monroe nodded. "Yep, her airway is nice and clear. She can have something to cool down her throat."

Justine came in with two plastic bowls and spoons—one contained crushed ice, the other an upside-down popsicle.

"Let that melt a little," the doctor instructed.

Ziva opened her eyes, blinking in the morning sunlight. "Ugh," she bubbled, flexing her hands.

Tony held up the bowl and spoon. "How about some ice? Think you can do it?"

"Yeth," she whispered roughly.

He spooned a tiny bit into her open mouth and she closed her eyes in relief. "…good," she rasped gingerly.

Dr. Monroe prodded her throat and chin gently. "Let me see inside before you have another bite."

Ziva obeyed and the doctor gave her a swift exam with a penlight.

"Looking good," she smiled broadly. "If you're talking and managing ice chips then you're a tougher cookie than any of these guys are giving you credit for."

Gibbs stepped next to Tony and picked up her right hand. "That's my girl," he said. There was a paternal possessiveness in his tone. "My girl," he repeated deliberately.

She smiled. "Mo'?"

"More ice?"

"Ye…Yeth," she winced and tried to raise her left hand to her throat, scowling.

Dr. Monroe adjusted the IVs. "I'll be back to check on you after dinner. Remember: ice, popsicles, and plenty of sleep. Don't be afraid to ask for meds if you need them. This is a different kind of pain than you've been having and they're no shame in making it go away for a little while. You're head ok?"

Ziva opened her mouth to answer, but rethought and closed it quickly. She blinked at the doctor in frustration.

Gibbs fastened the right day-splint. "Like this, Ziver. You can say 'yes' with your hands." He held up his fist and wagged it up and down. She mimicked him, accommodating for the stays in her wrist supports, and looked meaningfully at Dr. Monroe.

"Very nice, Ziva. It's great that you can interpret symbolism like that, and even better that you can use it. Does that mean you're head is ok? You don't need me to do anything with the Dilantin?"

She signed 'yes' again.

"Good. Then I'm out of here. Get these two to do you bidding all day—you deserve it."

Tony continued to feed Ziva ice chips.

Gibbs reapplied the rest of her splints and tucked the blankets back around her. "Warm enough?"

'Yes', she signed, and opened her mouth for more ice.

Tony hesitated. "Take a breather. I don't want to give you too much to soon."

She closed her mouth and grunted impatiently. Gibbs grabbed her hands again, holding her pursed fingers against his own.

"Like this to ask for more," he said, and made the sign for her. She shook herself loose and repeated it, scowling hard at Tony.

"Ok, ok," he relented, and fed her another bite.

"Anything she wants," Gibbs warned him quietly, and returned to his chair and his newspaper.

. . . .

"Hey!" Abby cried happily, bursting into Ziva's room.

Tony shushed her; he'd just gotten her to settle down after two full bowls of crushed ice and half the popsicle. She's been restless and in pain, refusing to sleep until more medication could be administered to soothe her fiery throat.

"I mean _hey_," Abby amended, whispering. "Tim said everything went really well."

"It did," Gibbs answered softly. "What d'ya got, Abbs?"

She held out a folder of inventory slips and diagrams of plumbing supplies. "I finally got those supply orders from the construction sites around down. The pipe DeCroo used to…" She blinked and swiped at her eyes. "I mean, the pipe he had was made of galvanized steel, which is no longer used for indoor plumbing. The twenty-one inch pipe he was carrying is supposed to be for concrete work—railings, anchors, outdoor planters, stuff like that. It came from a company in Huntingdon, West Virginia and is a perfect match in size, weight, threading, and density as the pipe Jason Striker used to beat Cauffold to death in Dupont Circle. He's being questioned about it as we speak."

Gibbs got frustrated. "What are you telling me, Abbs?"

"I'm telling you that we're questioning Jason Striker about how he acquired that pipe. Curtis and McNeil are with him now; I should be getting the digital recording when they're finished. I'll let you know if there's a connection."

He kissed her cheek. "Good girl."

She sat down and sighed. "Why don't you guys go to work for a little while? I'll stay with Ziva—I'm stuck until Tim gets home."

Gibbs looked at Tony, who shrugged. "Let's wait until she wakes up. I don't want to deal with another tantrum."

Abby nodded, smiling sadly. "We reevaluated her scans last night. Have either of you seen them?"

Gibbs shook his head.

Tony hesitated, staring blankly and the wall above their heads. He reached out two fingers and stroked Ziva's arm. "I've seen the scars," he said softly. "Some have faded, others not so much."

Abby nodded. "Some of the skin trauma was pretty severe, but I'm talking about her MRIs and x-rays. She's broken a ton of bones and had probably a dozen concussions." She jerked her hands as she spoke then tucked her fingers together, whitening her knuckles. "Why didn't we notice?"

"She never told us," Gibbs growled. "And that's enough pity. We know and now we'll fix it." He stood and arched his back. "And she promised me no more crying. I'm headed to the Navy Yard for a few hours. Call me if you need me." He kissed Ziva's head and stepped out.

Tony flopped on the cot and kicked off his sneakers. "I'm beat, Abbs. Mind if I take a snooze?"

"Nope," she said brightly. "I can write a few lab reports while you rest. I'll get your up if we need you." She looked sisterly at Ziva and tucked her legs beneath her. "Sleep tight, Tony."

. . . .

Much of the day was spent in twilight—Tony slept, Ziva slept, and Abby and Gibbs rotated in the watcher position. Devorah came in for a brief visit, adjusted Ziva's splints, stretched her out, and left again, smiling and swaggering as usual.

She woke as Gibbs left to grab dinner. Abby switched her hand splints and Tony rolled to face them, squinting in the soft light.

"Hey, ninja," he growled sleepily.

She quirked a smile at him, eyes roving, but winced and tried again to get her hand to her throat.

Abby wrung her hands. "Let me get you a popsicle." She dashed out and Ziva blinked, confused.

Amy followed her back in. "I bet you're tired of being taped to that bed, Ziva," she said cheerfully. "So I brought you a new sweater." She pulled off the tape, removed the towels, and built a new brace around her.

"The doctors need to get into your mouth," she explained as she worked. "So you needed a removable mandible support instead of a full collar. We'll switch you to a Minerva brace until the scabs fall off, and then put you back in your regular CTO.

Swallow for me?"

Ziva signed 'no' and gazed at Amy defiantly.

Tony sighed. "Ziva, please swallow. I know it hurts, but Anya will give you some painkillers."

Again she signed 'no,' looking away.

Abby returned with a bowl, spoon, and popsicle. She took one look at Ziva's sad, pale face and rushed to the bedside, throwing her things down on the table.

She pushed Tony aside. "What's wrong, Zivvie? Do you feel lousy? How about a popsicle? Will that help?"

Amy nodded emphatically. "Yes, that would be great, Abby. I need to see how she's swallowing and she's refusing to do ask I ask."

Abby's green eyes hardened. "_You_ _People_ have been giving her orders all day. Cut her some slack and maybe she'll listen."

Ziva smiled and made the sign for 'more,' looking hard at the bowl on the table. Abby fed her a small bite and, instead of swallowing, Ziva waited for it to melt on her tongue and let it drift down her throat on its own.

Amy sighed. "Ziva, I'm sorry, but I need to do this. If you can't swallow then I need to speak to Dr. Monroe about your script for immobilization. She originally wanted to put you in a halo, but I fought her on it-I didn't think you needed screws in your skull. Maybe I was wrong."

Ziva swallowed, defeated and sorry.

Tony recognized the green flash in Abby's eyes and took over popsicle duty.

Abby's posture went rigid when she turned on Amy. "You stop that right now. You're tone is condescending and you're all but threatening her. You can take your passive-aggressive attitude right out of here, right _now_."

Amy excused herself and left quickly, face red, eyes narrowed.

She turned back to Ziva, who was sucking surprisedly on a chunk of popsicle. "And _you_ do not need to take that—you might be disabled, Zivvie, but you're still a person. Don't let people talk down to you like that."

Ziva's gaze fell to the bedclothes. "I…"she rasped. "I…dun…do not…" Her face screwed up and she took a breath. "Do not," she rasped. "Nithe." She took another breath, hands fisted in the quilt. "No," she finally drawled slowly. She coughed and signed for more popsicle.

Tony rested his elbows on his knees. "What do you mean, Zi? I don't understand."

She closed her eyes and thought hard, mouth working. "Do…not nithe…me," she finally slurred. Tears formed in her eyes and she looked at the nurse call button.

Abby pushed it, but her eyes were on Tony, who was gaping. The message had been clear—Ziva didn't believe she deserved to be treated kindly. She was a burden now, with no clear future and a fairly horrible past.

Tony put his head in his hands and heard Abby ask Anya for more pain medication. Ziva sniffled, was suctioned, and started on a nebulizer treatment.

He rose, wiped his palms on his jeans, and kissed her cheek. "Ninja, I gotta go. I need some fresh air and a bite to eat. Do you want anything from home?"

She reached out unsteadily and grabbed the sleeve of his sweater. "Love," she mumbled, eyes drifting.

"Love you, too. I'll bring you something good, ok?"

Abby put down the bowl and spoon long enough to give him a hard hug. "Go to Gibbs'," she whispered in his ear. "I'll be there later."

He nodded, kissed Ziva again, and almost ran into Gibbs in the hallway.

"Jesus, DiNozzo, watch where you're going."

He shook his head to clear it. "I'm out, Boss. Get Zi to sleep and I'll see you later."

Gibbs' glare softened. "Basement."

Tony jabbed the elevator button and tried to keep from crying.

. . . .

Tim's legs were aching from the long drive, but he swung through the door of Charleston PD's interrogation room like a gangbuster. Shoulders squared, face impassive, he was clinging with tired muscles to his last thread of self-control.

Carlos DeCroo, dressed in an off-season wool suit, sneered at him. "What the hell do you want now?"

"Mr. DeCroo, there is evidence that suggests you had something to do with the attempted murder of an NCIS agent." He laid three photos on the table: one of his brother, Thomas, one of the riverside lot at Bolling Air Force Base, and one of Ziva in her NCIS cap and windbreaker.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Why'd you pick up Thomas?"

"Your brother was arrested and charged with attempted murder of a federal agent and trying to evade law enforcement. He's looking at a minimum of twenty years."

DeCroo pushed the photos aside, but paused to study the one of Ziva. He smiled salaciously. "I know who that is. She and I had a conversation the last time I was here."

Tim did not smirk. "From what I remember, she put you in a chokehold because you tried to charge your escorting officers."

He sat back. "That little thing? No. I know her. Know all about her. Lives in Silver Spring, doesn't she?"

Tim felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "That's not your business, Mr. DeCroo. What do you mean by you 'know her'?"

"I might've seen her around. You know she likes sugar in her coffee, right? And she can run for miles and miles around Rock Creek Park. Starts at the tennis center…"

"How do you know that, Mr. DeCroo?" Tim asked.

His smile didn't fade. "Just do," he quipped.

"Are you following her? Or did you have her followed?"

He shook his head, still smiling. "She's too smart for that. No, that little one would have me down in a second."

Tim grew angry. "Did you have your brother beat my colleague with that pipe?"

"I was in Charleston with my buddy, looking into some commercial real estate. You can ask him. Or my lawyer. I won't be speaking to you again without him." His smile brightened, turned predatory. "And tell Agent David I hope she feels better soon."

. . . .

The basement was ghostly, lit by one long fluorescent bulb. The boat hulked on sawhorses and cast a leonine shadow on the back wall. Tony downed a finger of bourbon as Gibbs stomped down the steps.

"The hell was that about, DiNozzo?"

Tony picked up a tack hammer, spun it in his hands, and set it back down. "Ziva was tired and being defiant, Amy tried to manipulate her, and Abby stepped in—told her she was fired." He poured another finger but didn't drink it. "And then Ziva told us she didn't deserve to be treated kindly."

Gibbs put both fists on the workbench. "How the hell did that happen?"

He shrugged. "Dunno, Boss."

"And your way of dealing with this is to bail?"

He soured. "I told her I'd be back. She understood, said she…she understood." He couldn't bring himself to say that she'd said she loved him. "Why?" He asked feebly. "Did she panic? Think I wasn't coming back?"

"No, she asked for more popsicles and fell asleep before Abby could get her one."

Tony felt irritable and vaguely childish. "Then what's the problem?"

"I told you the night she got hurt that you needed to man up. You defied a direct order when you walked out of that room. Would you do that in the field?"

"No, Boss."

"Then why the hell did you do it in the hospital?"

Tony dropped his chin to his chest. "Because I was feeling sorry for myself."

"Well you need to be un-sorry in a hurry. Tomorrow you speak to Dr. Monroe about what Ziver said. She might need to do something about that."

"On it, Boss," he said quietly.

"And so do you." He handed him a wad of sandpaper and a handful of cherrywood scraps. "That's a new puzzlebox. Sand it, square it, and put it together. It needs to be done by the time Abby gets here—she's going to stain it."

Tony got to work and Gibbs fiddled with a set of socket wrenches, organizing and shelving them, making space, laying down sheets of newsprint.

"Why would she say that?" He finally blurted, taking a layer of skin off his middle finger. "We've gone crazy to make her feel like we still love her. Why does she think she's a burden?"

Gibbs tossed two jars of various nuts and split-washers on the bench and began to sort them. "You tell me," he said flatly.

"I guess…I guess her survival has been based on her physical abilities. Fighting, shooting…killing…she's had to rely on nothing but her strength and speed to get through and now that's gone. But, c'mon, Boss, you and I both know that she's a lot more than that."

"Yeah." Gibbs set the jars in a row on a shelf above the workbench.

"Her identity has been taken from her." Tony stopped sanding, crushed the emery paper in his hand. His finger was bleeding and he wiped it on the hem of his undershirt. "She needs to regroup."

"You need to get her healthy," Gibbs jabbed a rough finger in his chest. "And in every way, DiNozzo. I'll crush you if I find you running like that again."

He nodded quickly. "Got it, Boss." He finished his sanding quickly and laid the pieces on the newspaper. "I gotta go," he blurted, and rushed out into the rain without grabbing his jacket.

Ziva was asleep when he got to the hospital. She'd been rolled onto her right side and wore an oxygen mask.

"Hey," he whispered. "Wake up."

She blinked at him, sleepy and confused.

He lowered the bedside rail and crouched so they could be face-to-face. "Ziva, I am wild about you," he confessed. "I still think you are a ninja assassin—a _beautiful _ninja assassin. You are not a burden and I am not ashamed of you. In fact, I am so proud of everything you've overcome that I brag about you every chance I get. I know that you can be yourself again, but you have to try. Can you try?"

She blinked at him. "Pathient," she slurred. "Har'."

He grinned. "Yes. You have to be patient and work hard. But I'll do everything I can for you, ok? Can you do the same?"

She smiled dopily. "Yeth."

"Ok," he agreed, and drew her right hand forward. "It's a deal. You work hard and I'll work hard and we'll be patient together." He kissed her knuckles. "But now you need to sleep so you can get healthy. Do you need any more medication?"

"No."

"Then sleep and I'll be back in the morning. We'll be great." He sifted a hand through her hair, tracing the occipital pad of her back brace with his fingers. She sighed, but wouldn't close her eyes.

"It…it…" she stuttered. "I…"

Tony moved his hand from her hair to her cheek. "What, baby?"

"Thorry."

"It's ok, just say it."

She huffed behind the mask. "No," she said sadly. "_Thorry_."

"You're sorry?" He felt his heart drop into his stomach. "For this? Ziva, it wasn't your fault!"

A tear tracked onto her pillow. "Hurth."

"Then lets get you meds and back to sleep." He rang for the nurse.

"No," she said again, crying for real. "In. In hurth."

"Inside? Like your feelings hurt?"

"Yeth."

"I know," he soothed. "My feelings hurt, too, but we're going to be ok."

Anya came in, clogs clipping softly on the floor. "What's up, Ziva?"

"Can she have some pain meds? Her throat is sore."

The nurse smiled fondly. "Sure thing. Thanks for telling me; I'll have them in a minute."

Tony followed her out the door, grabbing her by the shoulders as soon as they were out of sight. "I think she's depressed," he hissed. "She's really sad and her confidence seems to have taken a nose-dive."

Anya smiled knowingly. "I'm sorry. This is a really difficult time for everyone, and it's not unusual for someone like Ziva to need a pharmaceutical boost for her dopamine and serotonin. I'll leave a note that you'd like to speak to Dr. Monroe at first light. For now I can give her a little cocktail of pain medication and sedatives. It'll get her through the night."

"Thanks," he breathed. "Can you bring that cot back in? I think I need to stay the night."

She shook her head. "No way, cowboy. I know you're devoted, but she'll be down for the count and you need to rest. Go home and sleep. Be back by six tomorrow morning for doctor's rounds."

"I'll stay until she's asleep," he retorted quietly.

"Fine," she agreed. "Lots of love, then-she needs it. I'll tell Rita to check on her often."

She clipped away, paging the pharmacy as she walked.

He rushed back into the room. "Ziva? They're getting you medicine for your throat. Want me to hold your hand?"

She scowled at her sleep-splints. "No."

He drew a chair close by and leaned hard on the mattress, curling his arm around her shoulder. "How about this, then? Are you ok?"

She sighed and batted her lashes. "Pleathe. Like…you…clothe. You clothe."

"I like to be close, too," he sighed, and stroked a slow rhythm on her skin.

"Need…need…" Ziva looked imploringly at him. "Need…"

"You need me," he smirked, and she smiled.

"Yeth. Need you."

"I need you, too."

. . . .

Dr. Monroe readily agreed to add a small dose of antidepressant to Ziva's medication routine. It would balance the Lorazepam and Dilantin, and hopefully keep her from descending into self-deprecation again. Tony signed his consent right away and the meds were introduced in her food.

Dr. Miller came in at ten, smiling as usual and carrying a colorful bag of "Morning, guys. How are you?"

Ziva's voice had disappeared overnight, so she just smiled and toyed with the quilt.

The doctor sat in Tony's abandoned chair. "How did it go yesterday?"

Ziva blinked at Tony, encouraging him to speak for her. "She did great—no bleeding, no infected tissue left behind. She had a lot of pain yesterday, but she could speak. Today her voice is totally gone."

Miller winked. "Bummer. Can I look inside?" Ziva's new brace came with a forehead strap which needed tightening if the mandible support was to be lowered. The doctor made the adjustments as she asked the question, so Ziva felt as though there was no choice; she signed 'yes' and submitted herself to the brief oral and pharyngeal exam.

Dr. Miller was pleased with the hospitalist's work. "You look fabulous—I'm sure the doctor told you that the scabs would fall off in five days to a week, and it might bleed a little bit after that. Have you had anything to suck on for the pain? Crushed ice or a popsicle?"

Ziva gave her an emphatic wagging fist.

"How was swallowing? Painful?"

She rolled her eyes and signed 'yes' again.

"Are they keeping you irrigated with hydrogen peroxide? I wouldn't want you to get an infection like thrush."

Ziva signed and pulled a face; the peroxide tasted terrible.

Dr. Miller smiled. "Do you feel up to working today? I won't make you talk or swallow."

More emphatic fist-waving. Dr. Miller, like Devorah, made her feel like she wasn't some useless piece of meat, a cripple to be tossed in a locked ward and forgotten.

"Today I want to do a few object-naming exercises. Remember the cards we used before? I'll put them down, and all you have to do is point to the one I ask for. Think you can do that?"

Tentative fist-wag.

Dr. Miller sat her up and laid two cards on the table—one bird and one cat. "Ok, Ziva. Which one is the cat?"

She stared, blinked, and slid one hand over the correct card, then shot a look at Tony as if to say, _that's right, right_?

He squeezed her shoulder and winked.

Dr. Miller smiled. "Very good, Ziva." She laid out two more cards—a car and a tree. "Which one is the tree?"

Ziva answered correctly and a bit more confidently. Tony grinned and stroked her hair.

"Very good again! I like how you didn't hesitate that time. Now how about the boat?"

Dr. Miller had taken away the tree, but not the car. Ziva pointed quickly at the correct answer; no, she would not fall for a ruse.

"Can't trick you, can I? How about three at a time?" She set down a dog, a shovel, and a table. "Choose the shovel."

Ziva wanted to shake her head; there were too many things. Her focus wavered and a buzzing began in her ears. She clicked her tongue irritably. The cards disappeared and the buzzing stopped, though her focus continued to shift around—the doctor's face, Tony's face, the window and the overcast beyond. She was suddenly furious and wanted to throw something heavy and breakable.

Tony recognized her stress and stroked her cheek. "Maybe that's enough for today. I think she's feeling a little overwhelmed."

Dr. Miller scooted her chair closer and picked up her right hand. "Ziva? Can you look at me, please?"

She complied, blinking heavily.

"Hey, I want to talk about what you feel like right now. Is your head hurting?"

No.

"Are you eyes fuzzy or is the room too bright?"

Yes.

"Do you feel overwhelmed or stupid when I put too many cards down at once?"

Emphatic yes.

"Can we keep going if we just do two at a time?"

Another emphatic yes, complete with raised eyebrows and a small smile.

Tony kissed her brow. "As long as you're ok with that. Should I stay?"

The look she shot him didn't need interpretation; she'd find a way to shank him if he left, no doubt about it.

Dr. Miller laughed aloud at her expression. "You are not interest in guessing games, are you, Ziva?"

No, sharply.

They worked for another hour and a half on object naming, and by the time they were finished Ziva knew every card in the stack. She curled her hands on her lap and grimaced-ice or pain medicine was becoming more and more necessary, but she wasn't quite sure how to ask for them.

Dr. Miller stroked her hand. "Are you getting tired?"

Yes, lazily.

Tony drew the pillows back onto the bed and Ziva propped her arms on them.

"How about a little bit of popsicle before bed?" He asked, smiling. "You deserve a lot more after that marathon session, but that's all I can offer."

Ziva would've sighed in relief if she could've.

Miller put the cards back in her bag. "I like that you're eating a little bit. Don't be afraid to play with your food—think of it as a workout for your mouth. It'll help with the slurring and the lisp Dr. Monroe told me about." She smiled and twirled one of Ziva's curls around her finger. "Get some rest, ok? I'll see you on Monday morning."

Ziva smiled again and let her eyes drift closed. Tony nudged her lower lip with a plastic spoon and she allowed him to feed her a tiny bite of popsicle. Anya was there—she could hear the click of her shoes—and seconds later the painkillers floated her toward oblivion.

Sleep came quickly but didn't last long enough; Devorah's voice was tugging her back towards the waking world, loud and insistent.

"Sabra," she demanded. "You are out cold every time I walk in here. Are you trying to tell me something?"

She signed 'no' quickly and looked at Tony to get her up.

Devorah took off all her splints and let her lie unencumbered for the long minutes she devoted to stretching. Ziva reveled in the range of motion activities, but always felt a little hesitant during the strengthening part of her routine—she feltl like a failure if she couldn't do what was asked of her, even though Tony and Devorah assured her that it was perfectly normal. They worked on her hands and forearms, her elbows—which made her feel like a baby chicken—and shoulders, then moved on to her legs.

Devorah rested Ziva's left foot against her shoulder. "Ok, sabra, I'm going to push your knee up and you try to push back. Ready?"

Ziva blinked—she didn't want to sign and lose her concentration—and focused all her energy on keeping her therapist from bending her knee. There was a tightening in the back of her leg and a spark of pain traveled from her hip down into her calf. She squeezed Tony's hand.

Devorah backed off. "Wow. What was that?" She pointed a half-accusing finger at her. "Did you do that?"

Ziva smiled and squeezed Tony's hand a little harder.

"You did, didn't you? Tricky little thing. Can you do it on the other side? Bilateral abilities are pretty important."

She switched to the right side and pulled the blanket back down. "Do it again, Ziv."

She pushed back and the same tightening happened. A nervous, hopeful tremor worked its way into her belly and she smiled again.

"Wow, sabra. You are one tough little tiger. I guess you just made a very important decision for me—this week we'll work on keeping you seated upright for more than thirty minutes, and the week after you go to the gym. I think your sub-acute stage is over, or close to it."

Ziva's smile grew and Tony arced over her, stroking her hair, kissing her cheek, murmuring how proud he was. She felt self-conscious and tremendously pleased with herself.

"I'll be right back," Devorah said, toying with her hat. "I need to call down to the gym and make sure we get you scheduled right away. I want to be sure we have the space for you. And call Dr. Monroe; you might be off this floor by Friday morning." She grinned happily at Tony and he kissed Ziva's hand. "And for crying out loud, can't you two keep your hands off each other? You're embarrassing this old Jewish lady. Oy vey."

Tony's laughter followed her down the hall to the nurses' station.


	13. Everybody's Stalking

**I apologize for the delay; this story can be very slow to develop, and I don't want to rush it for fear of jeopardizing the quality of writing. Read on, folks. You're all my favorite of favorites. xo**

**. . . .**

_Just strap your hands across my engine._

_ I'm not broken so please don't mend me._

_ -Badly Drawn Boy, "Everybody's Stalking."_

Gianni Carvelli—picked up in Greenville, North Carolina for running a red light and transported back to the Navy Yard—leaned back in his chair and propped both index fingers under his chin. His blue French cuffs were rolled to the elbow.

"Who are you asking me about again?" He knit his brows theatrically, tipped his head down.

"NCIS Agent David," Agent Daniel Curtis replied. He was the best interrogator outside of Team Gibbs. Smooth-talking, even-tempered and handsome, he was not about to let a possible mob connection keep him from getting answers. "We have information linking you to her attempted murder."

Carvelli leaned forward to study the glossy photo of Ziva in her NCIS jacket and cap.

"Don't know her," he said, voice soft and clipped.

"That isn't true, Mr. Carvelli. She questioned you about the death of Private McGinnis—he was found shot to death in Rock Creek Park. Agent David had to subdue your friend Mr. DeCroo when he got out of hand during the investigation. Please tell me what you know about that."

"Nothing," Carvelli replied, soft and smooth. "I don't know nothing. She's a pretty girl, though. She Italian? Da-_veed_. Could be an Ellis Island name." He winked and smiled, "You never know."

Agent Curtis stared, impassive. "We know you had something to do with the attempted murder of Agent David," he said evenly. "Tell us what you know or we'll book you for obstruction and lying to a federal agent."

Carvelli sighed, spittle shining on his lower lip. "Fine," he said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "But I want my lawyer."

Behind the glass, Abby's long fingers wound around Tim's upper arm and squeezed hard enough to make him wince.

"Ow," he whispered.

"He means something about that. About changing names. Does he have aliases?"

McGee shook his head. "None that we know about. These guys thrive on fame, on acknowledgement and emulation by younger gangsters. There's no way he would have another name."

She let go of his arm and toyed with one of her pigtails. "Maybe he means Ziva, then. She's got a bunch of passports from her Mossad days."

"Those were all destroyed when her apartment blew up."

"Damn," she sighed, toying with a pigtail. "I'll be downstairs. I really think something is hinky about this name business."

Tim nodded, blank and thinking. "He's playing games with us. I think 'Ellis Island' is important, too. Maybe I should run through their database."

"And hers," Abby prodded delicately. "Do we have record anywhere of the names on her other passports?"

He shrugged. "I'll ask Gibbs."

"Are you headed to the hospital?"

Tim sighed. He loved Ziva but he wasn't sure he could stomach another few hours in an uncomfortable hospital chair.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I really wanted to get some writing in before the weekend was over."

Shockingly, Tony was at his desk when Tim got back to the squad room. He stapled a file decisively, looking at Tim with a devilish grin.

"What are you so pleased about?"

"Just remembered how much I missed this place."

"Ziva sleeping?"

"Sorta," he shrugged. "She's having an EEG. The neuro on-call said the less distraction the better."

Tim pulled up the EI database and punched in Carvelli's name. "So Gibbs is with her?"

"Yeah," Tony replied morosely. "She kinda kicked me out."

"For what?" Tim was not-so-secretly amused.

Tony heaved a sigh. "Withholding popsicles."

. . . .

Ziva had been fine with the nurse and the on-call neurologist. She sat patiently through a short check-up and cognitive function test, and barely flinched through a broken IV and needle replacement. She tolerated the ENT doctor who irrigated her incisions and asked her to swallow even though she'd told them several times—without words, of course—that it hurt like hell. She'd even been quiet through a brief description of the electroencephalography. Afterword she'd looked at Tony and Gibbs with raised eyebrows, quirking a hand in the direction of the retreating doctors. _I have no idea what they just said_, the gesture meant.

Tony just smiled and said, "They want to read your ninja brain waves."

The EEG technician wheeled in the machine. She was a tall, wiry blonde named Elizabeth.

Ziva blinked and signed a quick _more._

Gibbs read her perfectly. "Can she have a popsicle while the test is underway?"

Elizabeth paused. "I'd like to keep stimulation to a minimum. It'll give me the most accurate results."

Ziva looked at Tony this time and signed again.

"Sorry, sweet cheeks. She said no."

She signed again, sharper, more desperate.

Tony held out his empty hands. "She said 'no,' Zi. Afterward, ok?"

She scowled, looked at the door, then at him.

He gaped. "Did you just throw me out?"

_Yes_, sharply. A sly smile creased her cheeks.

"Fine, how about I go to work for a little while? You can stay with Gibbs and have your popsicle when I get back. You can have _all_ the popsicles when I get back, ok?"

She signed _yes_ again, easily this time, and screwed up her face.

Tony, for the fifth time that day, scratched the itch where the feeding tube and nasal cannula met. "Bet you can't wait to get all that tape off your face. I can't wait either." He leaned down. "I will smooch you all over when that happens," he breathed. "I love you."

She tugged his sleeve four times. _I love you, too_.

"I'm bouncin', Boss. See you."

Gibbs didn't look up from his car magazine.

Elizabeth put two pages of fuzzy adhesive on the bed by Ziva's right hand. "I'm going to start attaching the sensors now. It won't hurt, but you might feel me pulling on your hair a bit. Tell me if it gets to be too much." She attached the first two electrodes to Ziva's scalp before her eyebrows went up and she looked at Gibbs, alarmed.

"It's ok, Ziver," he said quickly, pulling her hand into his. "You're fine."

She closed her eyes and breathed evenly. Or tried to. The placement of the rest of the electrodes on her scalp was tolerable, but the two on her temples caused her blood pressure to spike and the ones around her eyes and cheeks caused all-out panic. Ziva began to struggle, batting at Elizabeth with clumsy hands, coughing and gagging as she tried to call for help.

Gibbs wound the fingers of his left hand around both her wrists and cupped her cheek with his right hand. "Ziver," he said firmly. "It's ok. You're safe. Look at me." Her eyes rolled, unseeing. He leaned on the bed, trapped her hands between his body and the mattress, and used both his own to cup her face and draw her back to reality. "You're safe," he said evenly. "Deep breaths."

Anya rushed in to clear her airway. "You're ok, Ziva," she cooed, stroking her cheek. "It's just a test. No one is trying to hurt you."

Gibbs looked at Elizabeth who was completely unflustered. "You ok?"

"Yeah," she smiled. "I've been working here for years. That's a common reaction with combat veterans and POWs. Are you going to be ok, Ziva?"

Ziva was crying in embarrassment. She signed a sheepish _yes_ and grabbed for Gibbs' shirt. He stroked cheeks until she was a little calmer.

Elizabeth finished attaching the wires to the recorder. "I want to start the test now. Ziva, you can just relax; it'll be over before you know it." She adjusted a dial on the EEG machine and smiled again. "All set."

Gibbs nodded and wound an arm through Ziva's. "She'll be ok. Thanks for understanding."

She winked. "You're a good Daddy. I'll be back in an hour."

Gibbs raised her right hand to his mouth and kissed it. "What did they do to you in that cell, Ziver?" He whispered unnecessarily. He knew; Ducky's report was shockingly thorough. Electrocution was just one of the _enhanced interrogation techniques_—what the US so casually called torture—used on her by Saleem Ullman. Beating was the most common but zapping her with a truck battery was a close second, followed by waterboarding and sleep deprivation.

She breathed a heavy sigh and yawned, eyes stormy.

"What?" He asked.

She closed her eyes for several seconds then opened them and focused on her hands. She raised the left one and clumsily made the sign for _I love you. _He returned the gesture, winked, and watched her slide into a seizure.

Tony came in as Elizabeth wheeled the EEG and results out of Ziva's room, nodding at the officer who stood on protection detail outside the doorway. He'd insisted on it when Tim reported the eerie interview with DeCroo. Metro owed him enough favors to step in.

"Hey," he greeted softly. He unwrapped a mango-flavored popsicle and held it to her lips. "Here. Good job today."

She slurped, eyes still dark and somewhat accusatory.

"Didn't handle the EEG too well," Gibbs said roughly, kicking up his ankle to rest on his knee. "Can't say I blame her."

There was adhesive residue in her hair and on her forehead. Tony picked at it and she flinched, gazing at him in irritation. "Did it hurt?"

_No._

"Did it make you scared?"

A pause, then _yes_, shy and uncertain.

"Did you roundhouse-kick her in the face?" He deadpanned.

She fidgeted angrily and knocked at the hand that held the popsicle.

He almost dropped it in her lap. "Geez, I'm just trying to make joke, Zi." He licked his sticky fingers.

She sniffed and tried to raise a hand to her throat. She was almost successful this time but the mandible support of her brace got in the way. She frowned, blew out a breath, and dropped her hand.

"Want more?" Tony held out the popsicle. She took it again, cautiously, blinking.

Gibbs turned the page of his magazine. "We should do some stretching when you're done with that. You might feel a little better."

She signed _yes _and finished quickly, allowing Tony to wipe her face with a damp cloth and pull the blankets back.

They stretched her thoroughly, rejoicing again as she resisted with her legs when they forced her knees and ankles up. She smiled and signed for _more_ and _more_ again. It wasn't until she was panting and sweating that she let them stop and reattach all her accouterments.

Gibbs watched her eyes go vacant as he tightened the Velcro around her right thigh."Ziver?" He asked. "You ok?"

She blinked and both fists balled on the quilt.

Tony shook his head sourly. "Forget it, Boss. You can't get to her when that happens. It just needs to pass on it's own."

He pulled the blanket back town, tucked it under the edge of the mattress, and joined him in the visitor chairs. Ziva came around minutes later, looking meaningfully at the row of wooden puzzles on the windowsill. Tony gave her one and she disassembled it quickly and scattering the pieces on the quilt.

Gibbs smiled. "You want to be busy."

She signed _yes_ distractedly and began to put it back together, wincing when one piece wouldn't fit quite right. She tried to force it, failed, and pushed it off the edge of the mattress, smiling devilishly when it bounced on the floor. Tony retrieved it and she swiped at it again, putting the whole completed thing—minus the missing piece—on the table he rolled in front of her.

He didn't bend again to get it. "It can stay there, Zi. I'm not your do-boy."

She sniffed and looked at Gibbs.

"Nope," he said over his magazine.

She pushed the whole puzzled off the table, smiling again when it crashed to the floor below.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Why did you do that?"

She huffed angrily and looked to the windowsill for another.

"I'm not going to get you another if it's going to join it's bro on the floor. How about we do some flashcards instead?" He picked up a stack of Dr. Miller's picture cards from the table and put two in front of her. Again, she knocked them onto the floor.

Gibbs put his magazine on his knee. "Ziver," he warned. "You need to stand down."

She stared at him challengingly and signed _no_ with stuff, furious fingers, but her eyes went vacant, muddy, unfocused. Gibbs sighed worriedly.

Tony frowned and brushed the curls forming at her temples. "She's sweating. I think something's up." He rang for Anya, but Ziva was alert again by the time she arrived, fidgeting on the bed, working her fingers and mouth in dull agitation.

"The restlessness she's experiencing is a phase in brain injury healing," she informed them gently. "She's getting all kinds of signals and not many of them are clear. Redirect if she gets angry and make sure she understands what you're saying. Her comprehension is compromised, I think."

Ziva's hands contracted suddenly and she cried out silently in pain, breath gurgling in her battered throat. Tony grabbed for her, shushing and soothing. She began to cry again.

Gibbs picked up her sleep-splints and handed Tony one. "You get that side," he said thickly.

Tony worked her hand into the splint and fastened all the straps snugly. "What a bad day, Zi," he cooed. "I'm so sorry."

She shifted in the bed again, reached for his shirt, and cried harder in frustration when she couldn't grab it. He tucked the corner of his tee between her fingers and the plastic trough that kept her hand and wrist in a passive position. "There," he said softly. "Is that better?"

She threw her other arm across her body and Anya, who'd been adjusting medications at the computer terminal, praised her happily. "Nice job, Ziva!" She turned to Tony. "Crossing the midline is an accomplishment at this stage."

Gibbs nodded toward Ziva's shoulder, which trembled on the mattress. "She's still really uncomfortable. Should I roll her?"

The nurse pulled back the blankets and propped a cushion between Ziva's knees. "Now you can. Push and she should fall into place."

Gibbs pushed, she rolled, and Tony slid another cushion at the small of her back. Ziva stiffened in discomfort, gagging. She irrigated her mouth, cleared her airway, and readjusted the blankets, but Ziva cried on, clearly in pain. Tony, at a loss for what to do, slipped one finger beneath the shoulder strap of her brace and she flinched hard.

Anya sprang into action. "Take everything off," she ordered. "Everything—socks, pants, any tape that isn't supposed to be there—something is hurting her and I want to know what it is _now_."

Tony kicked aside the puzzle pieces and quickly unstrapped her leg braces while Gibbs pulled off the sleep-splints. Anya rolled towels, called and aide to get some special ergonomic padding, and ordered another nurse to call Dr. Monroe's emergency number.

"Ok," she said to Tony, and handed him some strange, space-aged foam shapes. "I'm going to take off her back brace. You need to put these where I tell you. _Exactly_ where I tell you, ok?"

"Copy that," he replied quickly.

She undid the Velcro strap around Ziva's forehead, rubbed gently at the mark it left, and had Tony stick a pillow under her upper torso.

"She's going to lean on that when I take the vest off," she informed him. "Make sure her chin is on the mandible pad and her arms aren't stuck beneath her."

Tony nodded. "She's good." He brushed at her lower lip with his knuckle, wiping away some saliva. "You'll be better in a minute, Zi."

Anya pulled away the front of the brace and she slid forward onto the cushions. "Good," she praised him, and looked at Gibbs. "Take her pants off, then the pressure stockings. I'll have to cut off her shirt."

Gibbs stripped her bare and drew the sheet over her legs, squeezing her knee gently once she was covered.

Anya cut the back of Ziva's shirt open with safety scissors and gasped. "No wonder she's so agitated." She rubbed her hair motherly. "You're covered in decubitus, sweetheart."

Tony peeked over her shoulder and saw a dozen deep red welts across her shoulders and neck. "What the hell happened?" He demanded. "We turn her right on schedule. Dr. Monroe said she'd get sores on her hips way before she got any on her back."

Anya's Eastern European mouth was a hard red slash. "The Minerva brace was fitted incorrectly. It never should have caused this kind of skin breakdown. I think Amy put her in a size smaller than she would usually wear to cut down on cost."

Gibbs' temper flared. "Where is she now?"

"Fired," Anya spat. "Wait til Ellen sees this."

Ziva twitched her fingers, looking at Tony earnestly, face sticky with tears. He clicked his tongue and tucked the corner of his t-shirt into her hand again.

"What do we do in the meantime?" Tony asked bitterly. "I'm not letting another orthopedist touch her without talking to me first."

"We'll leave her alone for the rest of the night, but you can't turn her without me or Rita—she's too unstable without immobilization. Dr. Monroe will probably order an air mattress. We'll just have to keep switching sides until the redness goes away." She smoothed Ziva's hair again. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry it took so long for us to notice. Are you better now?"

Ziva twisted the hem of Tony's shirt and signed a fragile _yes_.

Anya finished cutting her shirt away as Abby walked in with a handful of mylar helium balloons.

"Hi guys! Hi Zivvie—uh, you're kinda naked."

In all the rush, they'd forgotten to draw the sheet up over Ziva's bare torso. Gibbs looked away. "We had a little emergency, Abbs. Wasn't time for modesty."

"What happened?" She blurted, coming around to Anya's side of the bed. "Oh," she drawled. "Wow. I'll put some witch hazel on those."

Tony had dampened a washcloth in the bathroom and was returning to clean Ziva's face. She intercepted his hand and took the cloth, fumbling.

"Want to do it yourself, huh? How about I help?" He guided her hand through the motions and she looked at him gratefully. "My little fighter," he whispered, and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

Anya checked her pager. "Dr. Monroe will be here in twenty minutes. How about I bring some sodas for you guys? You all look a little run down." She gave Gibbs an up-down glance. "And a coffee for you, of course."

"Thanks," Tony said gratefully, still dabbing at Ziva's face. Abby treated her wounds and kissed her hair, then settled back on the arm of the recliner where Gibbs had taken refuge with the coffee Anya brought him.

"Hi," she said brightly.

"Hey, Abbs." He rubbed a slow circle on her back.

Dr. Monroe rushed in without her white coat. "I just talked to Anya—I am so sorry," she panted, face open and rueful. "I had no idea Ziva would be mistreated like that."

Tony stroked Ziva's brow, anger smoldering in his green eyes. "No one puts a hand on her without talking to me first," he ordered, puffing his chest. "From here on out—no therapists, no orthopedists, not even an on-call physician sees her without me unless it's an emergency. And I mean a real emergency—we're talking life or death."

"Tony," Abby rasped, "she's in need of long-term care. I doubt that's not possible."

"Bullshit," he spat. "Hasn't she been through enough, and with so far to go still? I'm not leaving her to some stranger who gets to decide if she needs to be punished for getting hurt. You want to see Ziva? Fine, but you have to get through me first."

Dr. Monroe stared at him wide-eyed. "I understand, Tony. I'll leave an order on the board that no one sees her without permission. I'll also tell the officer outside."

"This isn't your fault," he said authoritatively. "But help me make sure it doesn't happen again."

She nodded. "I intended to be Ziva's advocate when I took her on as a patient, as did all of the people who work for me. I'll tighten my screening process." She dipped her head. "We will need another orthopedist for her, though. How about I bring a list of candidates and you two can decide together?"

Tony looked at Ziva, who'd fallen sound asleep, hands outstretched toward him. "Yeah," he sighed. "That sounds perfect."

She performed a through exam of Ziva's pressure sores and upped her pain meds. "The anticonvulsants are what's keeping her comfortable, but I think they'll need to be adjusted after I read the EEG report. The Percocet will dull the pain in her throat and back and keep her asleep for a while."

"I figured," Tony mused quietly. "What about her fractures?"

Dr. Monroe shrugged. "Let's leave her alone for twenty-four hours. The sores will fade and we'll rethink our options."

Abby knitted her fingers. "Did you really want to put her in a halo? Amy said that's what you originally prescribed, but none of the research I checked into supports that kind of immobilization for this type of injury."

"Amy said that?" She shook her head. "That's ridiculous. You're right—there is no research that supports it. If her fractures were more severe or her injury was a complete severing of the spinal column then yes, I would put her in a halo. But Ziva's fractures are fairly stable and she responded well to the CTO. We'll get her back into it after her throat heals."

Tony nodded. "Should we put her splints back on?"

She shook her head again. "You want to wake her? Be my guest. I think you should leave her alone as long as she's peaceful. We'll figure something out if she starts to contract again."

"It happened earlier," Gibbs said quietly. "Her hands...when we were trying to move her."

"Pain response," the doctor said succinctly. "She'll do it again if discomfort reaches that level."

"Damn," Tony sighed, lowering himself into a chair. "For how long?"

"Let her determine that. I'm going to fire Amy immediately. I'll see you tomorrow during rounds."

. . . .

Ziva's pressure sores faded by the next morning but Dr. Monroe was not keen on putting her back in a brace. "I think she's seriously tired of being manipulated," she observed thoughtfully. "I'm not going to start wrestling her into a cervicothoracic jacket if she's happy with pillows and bolsters. Let's give her another day and decide.

Gibbs sipped his coffee. "What about the EEG, Doc?"

She sighed. "Ziva has a lot of seizures but I think the activity was higher than normal yesterday because of the pain she was in. I'd like to rerun the test today."

Tony's first reaction was to say no, but he rethought his decision; too many seizures could leave more brain damage in their wake. "Can we do it this evening?" He asked hopefully. "She'll be happier once she's worked out with Devorah and Dr. Miller."

The doctor eyeballed him. "Ask Ziva when she wakes up. If she says it's ok then we'll do it again. And instead of single electrodes I'd like to put a cap on her. It'll be more comfortable and hopefully she won't panic again."

Ziva stirred, blinking in the late-morning sun.

"Well good morning, sleepy-head," Dr. Monroe smiled. "How do you feel today?"

She took careful inventory, squinting and pushing her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. Instead of signing, she squeaked a high-pitched, almost avian, _fine_.

"Better than yesterday?"

"Yeth." Her voice was barely there, but the shadowy, rusty-hinges sound was a vast improvement over the signs and facial expressions that had the whole team playing and losing at guessing games all weekend.

"Can you tell me where you pain is?" Monroe asked, smoothing Ziva's hand in her own.

"Back," she whispered. Her right hand tunneled past her cushions and grazed at her throat.

"Back and throat," Tony repeated. "You want meds?"

"No," she said, scowling.

"Should we turn you over?" Dr. Monroe was ready for her to request a different position but she squeaked _no_ again.

"Ith…ith…nithe," she fumbled, smiling a little.

"Well you've got enough pillows for six people," Gibbs complained good-naturedly. "Damn well _should_ be comfortable."

Ziva curled deeper into her nest, almost disappearing beneath the mountain of padding and white sheets that kept her from aggravating her injuries.

"Hey," Tony said casually. "They want to read your brain again tonight. Can we do that?"

Her face soured and she threw a limp hand onto the pillows. "Dunno."

"No wires this time," the doctor promised. "We'll just pull a little net down over your hair, and your friends can be with you if you want. Whatever will make you happy."

Ziva stared for a long time then slurred, "Pa'thick'el," looking shyly at everyone in the room.

"Fine," Dr. Monroe agreed. "Get her a popsicle. Get her a hundred popsicles. She'll pee all day and night but if that's what's going to make her happy then you make it happen, Tony."

He rang for Justine. "You think she's hungry? Is that why she's asking all the time?"

"Maybe. I'll check the amount of food she gets and go up a few c.c.s. We might have to increase the Lorazepam and antidepressant to compensate for the slower absorption—and there she goes again."

Ziva's gaze blurred and wandered as she had another seizure. Her fingers twitched and Tony squeezed them delicately and he came back around quickly, taking in the concerned faces around her.

Justine wish everyone a goodmorning and delivered a popsicle. Tony held it to her mouth. "Breakfast time," he chided.

Dr. Monroe stood. "I'll be back this evening. That last event tells me she needs more medication, but I want to see what _exactly _is happening before we start pumping her with more chemicals."

Tony and Gibbs nodded their thanks and Ziva lifted her hand to give a weak wave, mouth still locked on her cherry treat.

. . . .

Tim wiped his face on his sleeve and squinted again at the computer screen. Search after search had revealed no connection between Ziva and Carvelli except for that one incident in Interrogation. He leaned back, defeated.

Curtis offered him a fourth cup of coffee. "Nada?"

"Not a damn thing," Tim said disgustedly. "Anything on the search warrants?"

He sipped his own drink and nodded. "We still have techs at an apartment he rented. Wanna drive out to see it?"

Tim set down his cup. "What aren't you telling me?"

Curtis stood. "Just get in the car."

His heart began to thud when they pulled up in front of Ziva's Silver Spring building, but instead of climbing the stairs to the third floor, they descended to the basement level. An apartment door was open on the right hand side of the narrow hallway. Inside was empty of furniture. Two technicians were working the plaster walls, which were papered with hundreds, if not thousands of photos of Ziva—photos of her in her apartment, jogging in the park, having coffee downtown, working in the field, standing with Abby at a crosswalk in Georgetown, sleeping in her queen bed among books and her laptop. A series of strangely intimate photos had been captured with a long lens—they were of Tony and Ziva playing in the snow during a surprise nighttime blizzard. She was laughing and mashing a handful of it down Tony's collar in the golden glow of a streetlight.

"What the hell?" Tim sputtered. "How did he get these?"

A tech stood up from the fingerprints he was taping on the kitchen counter. "We found camera equipment in the bedroom," he said softly. "We sent the memory card to Forensics. Abby should have it by now."

He jerked his phone from his pocket. "Abby? Did you get that camera card?"

"Yeah," she wheedled. "And I'm going through it now, Timmy. Almost to the—oh."

"What?" He demanded. "What, Abby?"

"It's the last photo on the card," she said weakly. "Hold on, I'll send it to you."

His phone beeped and he pulled it away from his ear to find a photo of Ziva on the screen, taken when she lay pale and broken in the woods at Bolling Air Force Base.

"I gotta go," he reported distractedly, and pressed the number for Gibbs' speed dial.

"We got a problem, Boss," he said without preamble. "I'm putting another protection detail on her room. Don't argue—call Abby."

He hung up and whirled on Curtis. "Why the hell did you bring me here? Couldn't you just tell me what was going on so I could take care of my team? What's wrong with you?"

Curtis shrugged. "Carvelli's in jail, McGee, and so are both Decroo brothers. What are you worried about?"

"My friends," he spat. "You need to swear nothing else is going to happen to them."

Curtis held up his hands. "They're safe, man. Chill. I got this—you have my word."

Tim took a step back and a deep breath. "Yeah," he said crossing his arms uncertainly. "Listen, it's not me you have to worry about, it's Gibbs and DiNozzo. If they catch wind that this guy is still working they'll gut you like a fish."

"I know that," he retorted childishly. "We made the arrests, didn't we? Now go build your case. I'll drive you back to the Navy Yard."

. . . .

Devorah slipped her hand into Ziva's and she woke with a start. "Hey, _sabra_. How you doing?"

"Fine," she squeaked. She was exhausted, actually, but would never admit it.

"Good. Listen, I can't do too much with you today except make you sit up and take a good look around. Ready for that?"

"Yeth." She shifted, ready to be rolled onto her back.

Devorah had Tony help her stretch and massage her muscles and soon Ziva was sitting upright in the bed, cradled by padding and gazing at them appreciatively.

Gibbs came back in with a fresh coffee and an armload of paperwork. "Wow, Ziver, you're at a full ninety degrees."

"What? Are you channeling McNerd, Boss?"

"Been working with my hands, DiNozzo. I can read an angle."

Devorah rubbed Ziva's knee. "How you feeling up there?"

_Like puking_, Ziva wanted to say, but she just smiled weakly and gulped back a sigh. It was dizzying to sit up this straight. Her back and neck sent sparks of pain down into her hands.

Tony took the right one and she jerked, wincing. "That hurts? Devorah, her hand hurts."

She shrugged. "That's from the vertebral fractures. Keeping her upright like this will help her manage those responses. Twenty-eight more minutes, Ziv. You can do it."

Ziva closed her eyes and willed the clock to tick faster. The dizziness increased. Her stomach tossed—she ordered herself not to think of popsicles. Of any food she'd ever enjoyed before.

"Going a little green there, _sabra_?" Devorah laid a cool hand on her cheek. "Let's push a little anti-emetic." She rang for Justine, who came quickly and administered the meds into the port below her left elbow.

_No_, Ziva thought. _It is too late_. Sure enough, heat worked its way up her throat and she threw up popsicles and formula into her lap with a _glurt_. She gagged, tasting blood.

Justine cleared away the soiled bedding quickly and suctioned her airway. "A scab came loose," she reported, checking with a light. "Call the ENT."

Devorah lowered the bed a little as Tony spread fresh blankets over her and scooped her hot hand into his. "You ok, sweet cheeks?"

Ziva squeezed his fingers and tried to smile, but blood gathered in the back of her throat and she coughed. Again, Justine cleared her out.

The ENT came in minutes and didn't bother to introduce himself. He checked Ziva's incision and shook his head. "No need to recauterize," he said, pocketing his light. "The bleeding is already stopping on its own."

Devorah shook her head, features drawn in guilt and disappointment. "I'm really sorry about that, _sabra_. Maybe you won't get into the gym this week. It's fine—we have time."

Ziva raised her eyebrows. No. She would get into that gym if it meant she puked every day for the rest of the month. "Up," she squeaked. "Up. Mo'."

"Again? Ziver, I'm not sure that's a good idea." Gibbs rubbed her leg and kissed her cheek. "Why don't you relax and let Tony wash the glue out of your hair?"

"No," she wheezed. "Up. Mo'."

Devorah shrugged. "Hey, if she's willing to try then I am, too."

Tony raised her again to a ninety-degree angle and adjusted the pillows that kept her from sliding sideways on the mattress. He kissed her cheek. "There you go, Zi."

Thank'th," she slurred. "You…you…Dev…you…" She closed her eyes, frustrated.

"Don't worry, Ziv, I'm timing you. Long as you can. Your stomach ok?"

"Fine. Juth'…long, Dev."

Nineteen minutes trickled by before Ziva looked at Devorah and said, "Ok. Yeth."

She and Tony lowered the mattress and turned her to the left, adjusted the pillows, and tucked her hair away from her face.

"All right, Brave Little Sabra," Devorah thundered. "You did great today. Sleep it off and I'll be back tomorrow."

Gibbs nodded to the splints on the windowsill. "What about those?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "If she tightens up then put 'em on. Otherwise, leave her alone. Poor kid's been probably never been so manhandled in her life."

She strode out, ignoring the pointed glances the agents shared behind her. Ziva sighed and grabbed for Tony's shirt again.

"What?" He asked. "You should be asleep."

She smiled sleepily. "You clothe," she muttered, and closed her eyes.

Gibbs stood, stretching. "I'll see you later."

He gaped. "Where are you going? You need to be here for her EEG or she'll flip."

"Relax," he scoffed. "I'll be back—I just want to get the ramp deck finished before it rains tonight. Looks like I'm working alone."

"I'll come with you. Just give me a sec." He tried to work his shirt loose. Gibbs knocked his hand away and forced him into the bedside recliner.

"_Close_, DiNozzo," he ordered and loped out, smiling.


	14. Frog On My Toe

**Whoa, folks. Here's more. The Mecha is tired now, so don't expect too much until next week. I'm going to get back to "Foundling" as soon as this incessant thought-worm goes away. Call me if you need me-I'll be out mowing the back forty. And thanks for everything. Those review really tie the room together.**

_Papa, I know there's a frog on my toe._

_ Maybe I'll call him Jethro._

_ Maybe I'll grow up to be wise, good as he,_

_ and maybe you'll come back after you're long gone._

_ -Tori Amos, "Frog On My Toe."_

Ziva was sleeping off a seizure when a tall, fifty-ish man in a grey suit knocked on the doorframe.

Tony looked up from his phone without alarm. "Yes?"

"Are you Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo?"

Tony put his phone on the table and stood, shoulders back. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Jonathan Ammon—I volunteer as a patient liaison for the Board of Directors here at Walter Reed. Dr. Monroe brought it to our attention that there was a significant risk to Agent David's life while in the care of one of our orthopedic therapists, and I'd like to speak to you a little about that. Do you have a minute?"

Ziva stirred and sighed but didn't wake. Tony smoothed her hair back and made a mental note to ask Abby for another elastic.

He didn't invite the man to sit. "Agent David might wake at any minute. I can speak if it's quick."

Ammon opened a file. "Dr. Monroe noted that an incorrectly-fitted cervico-thoracic orthotic caused moderate to severe skin breakdown. Is that correct?"

Tony crossed his arms. "Yes."

He jotted a quick note in the file. "And approximately how long did the decubitus go unnoticed by our staff?"  
>"I don't know. It could've been an hour or six hours-she was irritable all day. None of us thought to check it out, either, so don't come down on Anya or Justine."<p>

Ammon nodded. "And did Agent David suffered any related issues?"

"Seriously increased seizure activity."

He nodded again. "And has the staff taken measures to ensure the neurological events are stopped or minimized?"

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Yes," he said simply.

"Thank you, Agent DiNozzo. Is there anything we can do for you or Agent David to make you more comfortable?"

"Hire people who aren't willing to put patients at risk to save a few dollars."

Ammon nodded again, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Thank you for your time." He left quickly, sliding the door shut behind him.

Ziva slept on, eyelashes fanned on her pale cheek. He smoothed her hair again and looked up as McGee and Gibbs came in. They were tense and angry-looking, tumbling into the visitor chairs with heavy sighs.

"We need to talk," Tim whispered.

"So talk," he countered, worrying her fingers on the quilt.

"Carvelli—or one of his boys—has been following Ziva for a while. We found a hideout full of pictures that had been taken over the course of a nine-month period."

Tony nodded, anxiety creeping up his throat like bile. "And?"

"The last photo was taken within minutes of her injury, Tony." He passed a copy of the photo across to him.

He took it with blunt, greedy fingers, eyebrows knitted. "How the hell did that happen? We had that place surrounded, Probie."

"Abby thinks he was in one of the townhouses just slightly north of where she was found either on the third floor or in a crawlspace. Based on the angle of the photo and an estimate of the light meter, shutter speed, and lens length, we've sent teams with warrants to four of the homes on Overlook."

"Jesus," Tony sighed. "We had no idea anyone was after her?"

"No," Tim said flatly. "There was no indication that Ziva was in any danger. We were investigating a completely unrelated case—Jantzen's in the brig until his trial starts in December."

"What's this guy's name again? Carvello?"

"Carvelli. Gianni Carvelli. We're trying to trace the camera, lenses, and digital developing technology we found in the apartment—we're almost positive it's his, but we can't do anything without proof."

"Where's his hidey-hole?"

Gibbs ran a hand over his silver head. "Ziva's building."

Tony's mouth went dry. "What?" He cracked his knuckles. "Toss her place."

McGee's eyebrows came up. "You think she knew about this?"

"You think she didn't? How the hell does a guy like DeCroo get the drop on her, Probie? Search her apartment and her desk in the squad room. Let me know if you find anything."

Gibbs nodded and stepped into the hallway, phone at the ready.

Tim glanced compassionately at Ziva who was still asleep; she hadn't stirred despite their increasingly angry conversation. "Do you know if any of her family immigrated here via Ellis Island?"

Tony paused. "Not that I know of. Everyone from Europe went to Israel in the forties. Her Persian family has been in Israel since the sixties. I don't think anyone came here except for her." His looked at his hands. "Damn. She's really alone."

Gibbs walked back in, shaking his head, jamming his phone back into its holster. "No. She has us. I started the process to get warrants for Ziva's desk and apartment. I also got a few guys to help us box her things once we're done searching. She's not going back there, DiNozzo, so you might as well cancel her lease. Rent a storage locker and we'll put her stuff there for now. How's the house coming?"

Tony smiled but it was strained. "Just waiting to close."

"You got bought?"

"I manage to have excellent credit despite the number of times I've had to bail out my deadbeat father. I had no problem obtaining a mortgage, _thankyouverymuch_."

Gibbs snorted. "You got anyone in there giving you estimates? How much you think it's going to cost to make it accessible?"

"'Bout sixty grand, give or take."

"Who's your contractor?"

"Dunno yet. That's just a ballpark."

He stood. "Well get someone in there as quick as you can, DiNozzo. She's sitting up. It won't be long before they're shipping her out."

Ziva's nose wrinkled and she dragged one uncooperative hand toward her face, frowning when she couldn't reach the persistent itch on her cheek.

"There's my girl," Gibbs said softly, and scratched for her.

She blinked her eyes open, smiling when she swept the room and found all three men staring at her. "Hi," she rasped.

"Hi," Gibbs whispered back. "How was speech?"

"Ok."

"Did DiNozzo wash the glue out of your hair yet?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeth." She'd had a thorough bath that morning—there were two EEGs worth of adhesive on her head, and she'd sweated up a storm during the second one, half-afraid, half-sick still from sitting up.

"How's your pain?" He cupped her cheek, teasing the hair at her temple with his fingers. The oxygen cannula and feeding tube shifted beneath his hand and he tried not to jerk away.

Ziva opened and closed her mouth, thinking. "Hurth," she finally slurred. "Back. An'…an'…" She lifted her limp right hand and grazed her throat.

"Your throat is sore? Want me to get you a popsicle?"

"No…thankth." Her hands twitched. "Over?"

Gibbs smiled. "Yeah. Let's call Justine." He pushed the call button and she closed her eyes, drifting. He looked at Tony, who was smiling faintly at both of them. "What did the doc say about her EEG?"

"She's having absence seizures but they're longer in duration than what's typical. They can lead to short-term memory issues, so Dr. Monroe decided to double the Dilantin and add another milligram of Lorazepam. She only had one seizure today—it happened after speech and then she fell asleep for two hours. Oh, and she's getting more food each day. She was craving sugar because her glucose levels were low."

"Glad you're doing better, Ziver," Gibbs smiled.

She opened her eyes, smiled, and grabbed a handful of his polo.

Justine swept in. "You need me to help you roll her?"

Tony nodded and Tim shifted uncomfortably. "Um, maybe I should step out for this. I don't want to invade Ziva's privacy."

Tony almost laughed. "Are you kidding me? She's had a dozen people's hands on her, most of them she barely knows. I think she would want you to help.

Justine pushed him toward the end of the bed and had him steady Ziva's knees while the rolled her left-to-right with no bending or twisting. "She's uh…still not wearing anything, huh?" He fumbled.

Gibbs adjusted the pillow that kept her head steady. "She can't tolerate it right now. Just sheets and pillows. And her quilt."

"Her Linus blanket," Tony added. She refused to let anyone take it away, even for a bath.

Ziva sighed. "Ith…mo'."

"Better," Tony corrected, and kissed her brow.

"Yeth," she agreed, and began to drift again.

"She's really sluggish," Tim noted. "Have they considered switching her from Dilantin to Topamax or Clonazepam? Or is this just fatigue from yesterday's marathon of neurological activity?"

Tony shrugged. "The doc thinks it's a hangover from yesterday. Devorah wants to see her in an hour, but I don't know how well that's gonna go. She's really beat."

Gibbs kissed her brow. "McGee and I will let you sleep, Ziver. C'mon. Abby wants us." He looked pointedly at Tim, who gathered up his laptop and dashed after him.

"Talk to Dr. Monroe about switching her," he called over his shoulder, then blushed. "And give her a kiss for me."

Tony waved and turned back to Ziva, who was blinking at the wall above the window. "What are you seeing there, sweet cheeks?" He wondered aloud, and grabbed her limp left hand. "Anything interesting?"

She looked at him for the first time all day. "Uth," she lisped. "Thee…uth."

"Us, huh? What about us?"

She grabbed his sleeve. "Do…not…left."

"Nope," he said easily. "I'm not going anywhere." Her eyes slid closed and he prodded her gently in the chin. "You need to sleep a little more? Devorah is coming soon."

She hummed in acknowledgement and nestled down among her pillows, asleep in two clicks of the diffuser.

. . . .

The elevator dinged and Gibbs strode off, coffee in hand. "What d'ya got, Abbs?"

She grinned, happy to have some sense of normalcy back in her lab, but looking at the photos and the map she'd prepared made her heart sink a little. "Um, I just put together a timeline of events for…what happened." She drew his attention to the map. "Ziva ran after Jantzen at ten-oh-nine, lost contact at ten-ten, Tony arrested him at ten-twelve, and then arrested DeCroo at ten-fourteen. That last photo of Ziva was taken sometime between ten-eleven and ten-thirteen a.m. based on the positioning of light and shadow. I've already pulled the base check-in forms and security footage for the entire day. Timmy and I will go through them tonight." She wrung her hands, face drawn and pale.

"Hey, you did great, Abbs." He slung an arm around her shoulder and drew her close. "You've sacrificed a lot for Ziver. For everyone." He kissed her head and handed her a Caf-Pow that she hadn't seen when he got of the elevator.

"Thanks," she sighed. "I just wish this had never happened."

He leaned against the edge of the table. "I think we all feel that way, Abbs, but we can't feel sorry for ourselves forever."

"I know," she sighed. "Are you going to the hospital tonight?"

"I go every night, Abby."

Her green eyes flashed. "You have other kids, too, you know," she spat. "I know Ziva is sad and in pain all the time but there are other people who need your attention."

He didn't let her miniature temper tantrum ruffle him. "How about dinner tonight? Just you and me. Any place you want."

She smiled. "I know you only like crappy Chinese food, but there's a great new Vietnamese place I'd like to try. You can get fried shrimp or something."

"Absolutely. I'll be back down in an hour." He kissed her head again.

"Go get that bad guy, Gibbs," she called at his receding back. "Because we have a date and you _cannot_ miss it."

. . . .

Devorah tugged the quilt back up to Ziva's shoulders and pushed the button that would raise the head of the bed. "Ok, Ziv," she said casually. "Let's beat nineteen minutes today."

Ziva smiled and swallowed, trying to accept the dizziness that came with a position change.

Tony lowered her feet, tucking the blanket into the deepening creases in the thin hospital mattress. He rubbed her knee, squinting. "I see your nineteen minutes and raise you twenty-one," he said, fanning invisible cards in his left hand, looking at her conspiratorially. She smiled, still dizzy. The mattress came to ninety degrees and stopped.

Devorah stuffed another pillow under her right side—she was listing a little—and stepped back. "Starting the clock, Ziv. Go." Her watch beeped.

"Long," she slurred, and focused.

At nineteen minutes she was still upright. At nineteen-and-a-half she began to lean to the right, and at twenty-and-a-half her head drooped forward as if all the muscles in her neck went on strike. She squeaked wordlessly in discomfort and slammed it back against the mattress, blowing out a breath in frustration.

Tony laid his hand on her brow. "Never saw that happen before."

Devorah lifted one hand dismissively. "Never had the chance. She wore a neck support for three weeks, Tony, those muscles are going to be a little soft. It was good that you popped right back up, though. Did it hurt at all?"

"Yeth," she retorted sourly. Her neck was _broken_ after all.

Devorah put a hand on her arm. "Sorry about that, sabra. I'll talk to Dr. Monroe when we're done. She might put you back in a collar just for support and pain management."

Ziva huffed and coughed, wincing. She slipped to the left. "Ok," she said, but the word _down_ failed to materialize on her lips. "Ok," she insisted again, looking at Devorah and Tony pointedly. Didn't they understand that she needed to lie down? "Oh. _Kay_," she demanded, pounding weakly on the bedclothes with one feeble fist.

Tony jumped up, lowered the head of the mattress with one hand and tucked a pillow under her arms with the other. "Twenty-two minutes!" He cheered. "A new record!" He kissed her cheek noisily.

She rolled her eyes; everyone had become so affectionate since she'd woken up in the hospital. Mostly she loved it; she felt weird and disconnected with so little sensation. The touching and kissing helped to keep her grounded.

Devorah smoothed the quilt. "That's it for me today. If you're pain levels are stable then I'd like to get you transferred to a chair tomorrow. I'll teach Tony how to do it so he can take you out for a walk. Does that sound good?"

A walk? As in _outside_ her hospital room? The idea was almost intoxicating after nearly three weeks of the same white walls. "Yeth," she slurred happily.

The therapist toyed with the bill of her hat. "And you need to get some clothes on; I can't have him parading your _nakednik_ around this campus. Do you think Abby will bring some pants and a shirt for you?"

Ziva sighed. Clothes were hard. Shirts made her itch all over and the nurses would cut them. Would Abby be upset if she asked for another? "Dunno," she mumbled, looking away.

"How about I do some shopping for you tomorrow? Maybe during speech? Should Gibbs come while I'm gone?"

"Yeth," she said immediately, smiling. Gibbs was easy to have around—he didn't speak for her unless she asked and he didn't talk down to her. He also didn't tolerate her tantrums. While that meant she didn't get what she wanted, it also gave her clear and consistent boundaries to push against.

"It's settled then," Devorah said, holding out her hands. "See you tomorrow after lunch."

She waved goodbye and turned expectantly to Tony. "Pa'thick'el?"

. . . .

The Vietnamese restaurant Abby took him to was tucked away on a side street in downtown Arlington. She plowed through an enormous bowl of pho and rambled about her latest Habitat project and that week's antics of the bowling nuns.

"So," she drawled, slurping broth, "Sister Rita told Sister Mary Ellen that the soup kitchen should bump the lunch service from eleven-thirty to twelve so that she could—"

"Sister Rita?" He interrupted. "She a nurse?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"She's with Ziva from eleven to seven every night," he explained, laying down his fork. "Sometimes I get a midnight phone call."

She clicked her tongue. "She's having nightmares?"

"I said sometimes," he shrugged.

"Remember when I was your favorite?" She teased. She was smiling, but there was a definite edge to her tone.

"I don't have favorites," he denied. "Everyone has different needs at different times, Abby. This one is just a little more extreme."

"I was _too_ your favorite," she pouted. "And now I'm not."

He reached across the table for her hand. "You're always special to me, Abbs. Always. Just because Ziva or Tony or Tim might need me more _temporarily_ doesn't mean you're any less important. Ziva will be fine. Eventually."

"I'll always need you," she blurted.

He squeezed her hand hard. "I know, Abbs."

She folded her napkin and sighed. "Maybe we should get the check and head over to the hospital. Ziva and Tony are probably looking for us."

"Probably," he acquiesced, and refused to let her pay.

They crossed the street to the Charger and she reached for his hand. "Let's do this every week," she insisted, wide-eyed. "Just you and me. Please?"

"Sure," he agreed easily. "Thursday night. Next time I get to pick the restaurant."

She huffed dramatically. "Pizza _again?"_

. . . .

Gibbs settled into the recliner as Justine was helping Ziva finish her morning nebulizer treatment. She'd mellowed since the adjustment of her meds; her eyes were clear, her hands steady on the edge of the quilt. She was upright but not seated, propped with pillows and a cylindrical cushion behind her neck.

"Mornin', Ziver. No phone call."

She smiled, blushing. "No. Fine."

"Tony went shopping and to run a few errands. Hear your Talk Doc is coming at nine."

"Yeth." She fisted the quilt, staring.

"What?"

Her smile faded. "I…I…"

He waited for her to work it out, but she shut her mouth abruptly and looked away, embarrassed and frustrated. He prodded her arm and smiled. "It's ok. Try again." She gave him a sharp-eyed look and in it he could see the investigator she'd been, the sharp end of the spear.

She sighed, swallowed gingerly. "Nithe. Tony. Thome…thing."

He frowned. "I don't get it, Ziver."

"Thomething," she repeated. "Thomething. Nithe. Tony."

"You want to do something nice for Tony?"

"Home," she confirmed happily. "He…home."

"Because he bought you a home," he finished. "Ok. What should we do?"

She glanced around, mouth working. "Dunno," she sighed finally.

He pulled his notepad from his pocket. "Let's make a list of the things he likes. I'll start. Tony likes movies."

"Yeth," she grinned. "…ball."

"Basketball," he drawled, writing. "What else? How about pizza? Tony loves pizza."

She wrinkled her nose, thinking of the boxes she'd recycled after their movie nights. They were ripe-smelling of mushrooms and anchovies.

"What else, Ziver?"

She hummed, thinking, then mumbled something he couldn't understand.

He teased the palm of her hand with the back of his pen. "What?"

She looked away again, brooding. A long minute ticked by before she slurred, "girlth." She pressed her lips together in an effort to maintain her self-control.

Gibbs put his pen and paper back in his jacket. "Are you trying to tell me that you think Tony's going to leave?"

She sniffled. "Yeth."

"Ziver, I told him the night you got hurt that I would castrate him if he left you. Either he has your six or he sings soprano for the rest of his life. He loves you. He's committed to you. Trust me."

She took a deep breath and met his eye again. "Love him," she warbled. "But…but…Ugh." She lifted both hands and let them fall to the mattress with a _whoomp_.

He stood and kissed her hair. "Sh," he whispered. "I know."

Dr. Miller knocked on the doorframe. "Good morning. May I come in?"

Ziva smiled brightly but couldn't coordinate a response.

Gibbs sat back in a visitor's chair with his coffee. "C'mon in, Doc. We've been waiting for you. What's on tap?"

"Well, I'd like to do the cards again today and maybe work on some oral-motor skills. I'd like to start preparing you for a regular diet even if it's just supplementing the tube feedings."

"Pa'thick'el," Ziva reported seriously.

Dr. Miller laughed. "So I've heard. Let's start with your flashcards."

Ziva was a ringer for the pictures and didn't miss one except for _guitar_. She fumbled the hard _g _sound and looked up in surprise.

The doctor was unmoved. "That's the hardest sound for pharyngeal recovery. You'll get it when your throat is a little better. Nice job. Let's move on." She took out another set of cards. "I am going to put two cards on the table. You don't have to name them, you just have to tell me if they belong together. Here—I'll do one first." She put down a fish and a boat. "Do these things go together, Ziva?"

"Yeth," she slurred easily.

"Very good." She traded them for a car and a truck. "Do these things go together?"

"Yeth," Ziva slurred again, drawing out the word. She was beginning to think the activity was a little silly.

"Very good again. Now how about these two?"

In front of her were a fork and a cow. Suddenly her eyes clouded, her mouth went slack, and a thin line of saliva dripped onto the quilt. She jerked her hand up, but misjudged the distance between the bed and her face and smashed her lower lip against her teeth. "Oh," she cried softly. Her face grew hot.

Gibbs jumped. "What happened? You were doing fine."

Dr. Miller looked at Ziva carefully. "I don't know. Sometimes those nerves get confused after they've been asleep. A synapse got a little jittery, I think."

Ziva poked her tongue at the cut on her lip. "Ow," she whimpered.

Gibbs kissed her brow. "I know. It's ok. Can you tough it out and keep goin'?"

She stared at him—he'd never been so fatherly, not even after…_nevermind_ she snapped to herself. "Yeth," she said confidently.

Dr. Miller wiped the blood off her chin. "Just a flesh wound," she joked. "So let's look at these cards again. A fork and a cow. Do they go together?"

She hummed, ground her teeth, and took a chance. "Um…no?"

"Excellent!" She praised. "That one was kind of a trick, wasn't it?"

Ziva smiled. Ha. She _knew_ it.

Dr. Miller flipped back to the fish and the boat. "Can you tell me how these objects are related?"

She frowned, stared, and looked away.

"Ziver?" Gibbs asked. "You ok?"

"Yeth," she said softly. "Ok."

"Then tell Dr. Miller how those things go together."

"Dunno," she mumbled, still not meeting their gazes.

"How about you just point to the one that's in my basement."

She rolled her eyes and a tiny smile crept across her face. Two clumsy fingers landed on the boat.

"Excellent!" Dr. Miller praised. "Is there a fish in Gibbs' basement, too?"

Ziva looked shocked. "Ack. No."

"So where is the fish?"

"Out…dow…_down_. Ith…dunno."

"Out where? Down where? You know. Can you see it in your mind? It's cool and blue. Maybe there's a beach."

"Wad…_wat_," she blundered, sighing. "Er."

Gibbs nodded, smirking. "Put 'em together, Ziver."

"Wat-er," she fumbled, and jumped when they cheered.

Dr. Miller grabbed both of her hands. "So where do the fish and the boat go? In the…"

"Water," Ziva finished weakly, and smiled.

They worked together for another half-hour on naming and grouping, until Dr. Miller put not two but three cards on the table and Ziva burst into tears of frustration. More than two images made her eyes go blurry and her ears buzz.

The doctor scooped them away quickly and stroked her arm. "I'm sorry—I should've warned you first. Are you ok?"

Gibbs wiped her face. "She's fine," he said firmly, more to Ziva than the doctor.

"Do you want to stop?" Dr. Miller asked her gently.

Ziva sniffled. "No. Mo'."

She smiled. "Great. I have some pictures of people. You tell me what they're doing. I'll do the first one." She picked up a card about the size of a legal pad, where a woman cradled an infant. "This woman is mothering."

"Yeth," Ziva slurred wistfully.

Dr. Miller turned to a picture of a man raking a leafy lawn. "This man is raking," she informed them seriously. "Now your turn. What's happening here?"

Three young boys stood on a tropical beach with fishing poles. "Fithing," she said, wishing her stupid tongue would mind its own business. The lisp was unnerving her.

"Good. What about this one?"

A team of men tacked a sailboat across a choppy bay. Ziva blinked. "Beeld-ing?" She asked.

Gibbs smirked at the doctor's confusion. "I build sailboats in my basement. She's probably getting her signals crossed." He looked at Ziva, who was working hard to decipher what he'd just said. "Try again, Ziver."

"Hm," she grunted. "Go….go…boat?"

"Sailing," Gibbs corrected, and she smiling.

"Thailing," she echoed. "You…you…"

"I used to sail," he said. "But I don't anymore."

She hummed, focus drifting.

"Maybe the two of you can go sailing together one day," Dr. Miller said gently.

"No," Ziva snorted, frowning at her useless legs. "Do not…"

The doctor took both of her hands. "Your life is not over. You can still work, play, have a family, even go sailing. Being unable to walk is just a setback, not the end."

"Ok," she said vaguely, eyelids slipping. She looked at Gibbs. "You."

"Me what?" He countered.

Dr. Miller lowered the bed so she could rest a little easier. "Who is that, Ziva?"

"Hm?"

She pointed to Gibbs. "Who is that? What's his name?"

Ziva frowned, still looking at him. "You. Ith…ith…um…" She floundered, clenching the muscles in the back of her throat. "Dunno," she finally whispered, miserable.

The doctor pulled the framed team photo off the windowsill. "Quick, before you fall asleep, who are these people."

"Abby," she slurred. "Tony. Tim. Jimmy. Ducky…" She studied Gibbs' face in the photo, then shifted to look at him.

"Tell me his name," Dr. Miller commanded. "You can do it, Ziva."

A long silence passed while she organized her mouth. "Abba," she finally murmured. "Ith my Abba."

Gibbs vaulted out of his chair and peppered her face with kisses. "That's my girl," he whispered roughly.

The doctor smiled and winked. "Thought so," she whispered to him. "I'll see you tomorrow. Make sure she gets lots of love today; that was a big deal for her."

She winked again and tiptoed out.

Gibbs lowered the bed a little more. "You should rest a little bit. I can tell that you're very tired."

"Yeth," she agreed quickly. "Do not left."

"I will not go. I promise."

She flushed. "Tony?"

"He'll be back by the time you wake up."

"Do not left," she said again, half-asleep. "Pleathe. No."

He shushed her and stroked her curls, listening to spats of rain patter on the window-glass.


	15. Oziline

__**My computer has darn-near exploded, people. Thank you so much for all the love. I give it back to you million-fold. Or so I hope. **

_Sister, take the medicine that keeps you from decline._

_ But it's the waxing and waning that's always on my mind._

_ -Indigo Girls, "Oziline."_

Overlook Avenue was empty; the rain cleared out the Air Force wives and their strollers, the coffee-drinkers, the dog-walkers. Tony was alone, balanced on the curb with the woods to his back and rain dripping down his neck. Tim had narrowed the photo angle to four homes at the end of the block. Three were occupied, one was a model home still owned by the developer. The key was heavy in his pocket; he knew what he'd find.

The attic was unfinished and remarkably hot for such a cold, damp day. Only the rafters over the master bedroom sported pink roll insulation held up with brass staples that were quickly going green. Tony stepped over a gap in the plywood flooring and crouched near a ventilation window. The construction dust was disturbed; two clear knee-prints straddled three smaller ones. Someone—Carvelli, most likely—had knelt here with a camera on a shortened tripod. The view into the wooded park was clear; he could see exactly where he'd found Ziva, cold and stiff under the young ailanthus. The crime scene tape had fallen, dragged down by the rain. One of the paramedics had dropped the top of the IV needle he'd stuck in her arm and it was like a little blue beacon in the matted grass. _See this?_ It said to him. _This is where the universe jumped up and smacked you right in the mouth_. _Good luck, champ._

Tony pulled his smart phone and took a dozen photos of the vent window, the prints, the gap in the flooring, and the view of the park. He poked around a bit; the staging designer had stored some boxes there, and they were all open. One contained decorative glassware, another lampshades, a third coffee table books. He rifled through titles like _Chihuly: Master of Glass, _and _Canning and Preserving in the American Southwest_ before the sharp corner of _Ellis Island: Gateway To Hope_ stabbed him in the palm. He flipped it open, plopped himself cross-legged on the floor, and thumbed through pages of photographs. The Immigration Center and the long lines for inspection, young boys peering curiously at the camera, a woman with a baby in her arms, a man receiving inoculation for typhus. He almost snapped it shut—_almost_—but one small picture stopped him.

A young woman sat on a steamer trunk marked _Pressburg_. Her husband stood nearby, holding passports and visas. Neither of them wore the bewildered exhaustion of the other immigrants; in fact, they looked downright cool and collected. He frowned, squinted, fighting disbelief. The similarities were too, too clear—the woman's deep widow's peak, her straight brow, small nose and mouth. Her shoulders were square, hands small and even on her valise. The man was also dark, with wide, round eyes. _Eliezer and Zlata Dvorak_, the caption read. _1907._

Tony's heart crept into his throat. Eyes wide, hands unsteady, he stuffed the book back in the box and yanked out his phone again.

"Davis, get your team out here STAT. Make sure they check the attic at fifty-one thirty. Tell them to look for reading material. Sanchez and Li will know what I mean."

. . . .

Tony nearly collided with Tim as he barreled off the elevator on the neuro floor. "Hey, McGee," he said tiredly. "Anything turn up?"

Tim shook his head. "We searched her desk and apartment. There was nothing, Tony, not a single indication that she knew either the DeCroos or the Carvellis. Here." He handed him a key and a slip of paper with a combination printed on it in black ink. "Ziva's stuff is in a storage locker in Langley Park. NCIS is paying the rent. Did you call her landlord?"

"Thanks. And yeah, I did. He offered to give back the security deposit. Told him I'd split it with him."

"Very noble of you, Tony."

"It's only fair."

He pushed open the door to Ziva's room and found the lights dimmed. Gibbs was seated under the only lit wall sconce, pen rasping on his paperwork. Ziva was asleep on her right side, curls wild on the pillow.

"You bring something for her to wear, DiNozzo?" He nodded at Tim, who held out a fresh coffee.

"Yeah, stopped at one of those fancy yoga stories in Silver Spring. How was her session with Dr. Miller?"

Gibbs smiled, nodding. "Great. You'll wanna have a talk with her, though. She still thinks you're going to haul out on her."

"That's ridiculous, Boss, she should know by now that I'm sticking around."

He shrugged and sat up, throwing down his pen. "Yeah, well you need to make the message a little more clear. I'm headed to the Navy Yard. McGee, you with me?"

"Uh, I'd like to stick around for Dr. Monroe. I read about an oxygen deprivation treatment they're doing in Atlanta and I'd like to see if Ziva's a candidate. Or if she will be when she's a little more stable."

"Suit yourself. Back later."

The sat, sprawled their legs, began paperwork on identical work laptops. The quiet didn't last long; Ziva squeaked, furrowed her brow, and squeaked again, hands fisting the quilt.

Tony didn't get up. "Sweet Cheeks? You ok?"

She didn't open her eyes, didn't seem to have heard him. She moaned once, a long, low sound that ended in a cough. Her eyelashes fluttered but didn't part.

He approached the bed, concerned, and cupped her right shoulder. "Hey, Zee-vah, wake up. You're all right."

Tim pushed the call button. "I think she's in pain."

Tony clasped her hand, which was hot and clammy. The ropy muscles in her forearm tightened, closing her fingers hard around his. "Sh, Zi." he whispered, stroking her hair.

She tensed even harder and her breath grew raggedly. "Tony?" She whined, blinking and disoriented. "Tony?"

He looped an arm around her shoulders. "What's wrong, baby?"

"Oh," she squeaked, flinching. "Hurth."

Anya rushed in, already preparing a bolus of medication. "It's nerve pain. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Tony, do I have your permission to give her morphine?"

He barely glanced at her. "Will it make the pain stop?"

Ziva's head snapped forward on the pillow and she screamed once, high and sharp, then began to cry great, hitching sobs.

"Yes," she clipped. "If I push it now she'll be out for the next few hours. Can I do it?"

"Yes," he blurted, heart aching. "Hold on, Zi. We're getting you something to help. Patient, remember?"

She moaned and panted, no longer hearing him.

Tim was white with panic. "Nerve pain?" He repeated, typing. "It's intense and often doesn't respond to medication that isn't opiod-derivative."

Tony sat back in the chair Anya had shoved under him. "So I can bank on her being a junkie?" Ziva's hands tightened further around his and she arced her shoulders forward. "Why is she doing that?" He demanded.

Anya capped the syringe and threw it in the sharps bin, then adjusted other meds at the computer. "Her body thinks there's an external pain source. It's trying to get away from it. Buzz me again if you need me."

Tony kissed her white knuckles, then her cheek. "It's ok, baby. The medicine will help in a minute."

"No, she won't necessarily be an addict," McGee said. "But you'll have to go really slowly for the next day or two. Nerve pain has a source; it just takes time to pinpoint it." He swallowed, eyes wet. "I'm so sorry, Tony."

He sighed. "I feel really, really helpless. I wish we could just rewind and try the past two-and-a-half weeks all over again. I never would've let her follow Jantzen into those woods."

Ziva was calming down quickly. She sighed _oh_ again and frowned, trying to navigate the pain as the morphine set her adrift.

"Hindsight…twenty-twenty," Tim muttered, eyeing her sadly. "I don't know what we could've done to avoid this. I've run the scenario fifteen…_six_teen times, and each time ends the same."

"We could've figured out that someone was after her and dealt with it, McTarot."

"We had no clue she was in trouble, Tony. She didn't mention it, and there was nothing in her desk or apartment that indicated she was being tailed. We did everything right."

Tony shook his head. "I don't want to hear it, McGee. I just don't." He sighed, tearful. "Can you call off the cavalry tonight? I'd really like to be alone with Ziva."

"Of course. I understand. You want me to take your laptop back to work? Give you time to focus on her?"

"That would be great. Listen, thanks. I'm sorry for being such an ass."

Tim shrugged. "Call me if you need me." He slapped Tony's shoulder and left.

The morphine had finally taken hold; Ziva's muscles were lax, fingertips pink and smooth, face no longer puckered in agony. Tony kissed her knuckles again, but the stress of the last weeks, the intensity of watching her in pain and struggling, dragged his lips back into a grimace. Locking his fingers with hers, he lowered his face to the mattress and cried.

It was fully dark when he lifted his head again. Rita was adjusting the diffuser and she smiled when he tried to rub the creases from his skin.

"You should go home," she whispered. "She's out for the night."

He shook his head, shoulders slumped. "I can't leave her alone. She had her first experience with nerve pain this afternoon. If she wakes up and I'm gone…"

Rita clucked her tongue. "She knows Sister Rita will be calling her Daddy if she needs someone. Trust me, she knows she's safe with me. Get some rest and come back in the morning. Dr. Monroe starts rounds at six."

Tony rose and tried to work the knots out of his back. "Are you sure? I can stay."

She shook her head again. "No, you can't. She'll be fine. Goodnight," she said tartly.

"I'll be at Gibbs'," he whispered in Ziva's ear. "We're going to make you a ramp. Ok, sweet cheeks?"

Rita patted his shoulder. "Go get your hands dirty. It'll help you think."

. . . .

Gibbs was cutting spindles on the bandsaw and tossing them into loose stacks. Each one clattered to the floor with a hollowish sound. He'd need seventy of them in all, each one lathed to match the original porch detail. Tony hung his jacket on the table vise and started pushing them into neater piles. Ten per section, seven sections. If they worked fast they could get one section turned and sanded before sunup.

"McGee called," Gibbs said tightly. "Everything ok?"

Tony ran a hand over his hair, not caring if sawdust got caught in his pomade. "Ziva had some weird nerve attack earlier. She didn't really wake up, just started screaming. It really sucked, Boss."

He nodded, chewing a toothpick. "One of my buddies was paralyzed in a jeep rollover in Algeria about thirty years ago. Had really bad pain for months afterward."

Tony's heart sank and he had to swallow to keep the tears away. "He ok now?"

"He's dead. Killed himself in ninety-four."

His mouth went dry. "Boss, you don't think Ziva will…"

"I don't think anything, DiNozzo. We'll just love her as best we can."

Tony nodded, disturbed and trying to comfort himself.

Gibbs unplugged the saw and pushed it back against the wall. "She called me 'Abba' today. I guess it was because she can't really say my name, but…" He cleared his throat. "But I can't say it's didn't mean something to me."

Tony poured them each a finger of bourbon. "She gets you, Boss, and you get her. What Ziva and I have can't compare to that."

"I'm not trying to pull any punches, DiNozzo," he said slowly.

"But she really needs a father right now," Tony finished for him, and he nodded.

"Yeah. What took you so long this morning?"

"I, uh, had to run some errands," he wheedled lamely.

"You went back on scene." There was no anger in his voice, only compassion.

"I had to see where the hell he was hiding, and I found it. He was in the attic of the model townhouse. I could see exactly where she fell."

Gibbs gave him a hard look.

"I didn't touch anything, Boss. I still know how to investigate. I just phoned in a tip to Davis' crew so they knew what to look for. Took a few pictures and sent them to Abby, just in case."

"Keep your hands clean, DiNozzo. Why don't you get some sleep? I might rack up, myself."

Tony nodded, toeing a pile of sawdust. "How can you be so matter-of-fact about this, Boss? I feel…well, not like that."

"I have to," he said quietly. "Because if I think too hard of the pain, the fear, the fight, I want to either scoop her up and bring her home, or trade places with her."

"She'd kill you," he scoffed.

"She would," he agreed softly. "We need to keep rallying for her."

"Copy, Boss." He trudged up the stairs, exhausted. "We need to works something out for when everyone goes back to work."

"Well start thinking," he called over his shoulder. "We all go back on Monday. Make it happen, DiNozzo."

Tony swore he said _Make her happy_, but that just didn't seem right.

. . . .

Gibbs strode off the elevator and handed over a Caf-Pow without saying a word. Abby drank deeply, cheeks working hard on the straw, before shoving him towards the plasma.

"Tony sent me pictures," she said quickly. "And I did some calculations. Based on height, weight, and femur-length, it was _definitely_ Carvelli who was kneeling in that dust. We're charging him now with conspiring to murder a federal agent and stalking. I want to trump the charges as much as possible. There's got to be something else we can nail him for."

"Good work, Abbs." A photo on the bulletin board caught his eye. "Is that Ziver?"

"Striking, isn't it? No, that's a Czech immigrant from Pressburg named Zlata Dvorak. It's from this book." She held up _Ellis Island_ and flipped to the original page.

"They've got to be related," he mused.

"Working on it, Gibbs, but there's no DNA in a coffee-table book. I'm running records as we speak, and Tim is working on the Israeli embassy. He thinks she might be a distant cousin."

"Her grandparents were from Bratislava."

"Which was known in the German-speaking world as Pressburg. I'm telling you, I'm working on it. Don't you have forms to fill out?"

"Keep it up," he said softly, and kissed her cheek.

. . . .

In a reverse play, Tony visited the squadroom before going to the hospital. He checked his voicemails and email and rooted through inter-office envelopes to find no one had missed him and no one needed him. He rang for the elevator happily and walked onto the seventh floor of Walter Reed Military Medical Center still feeling relieved to have the day with Ziva.

She was still curled on her right side. One hand was propped over her eyes and she wore a rebreather mask again, as she had after her tonsillectomy.

"Hey, sweet cheeks. You still in pain?"

She moaned and didn't open her eyes.

He breathed in the scent of her hair and kissed her brow—no fever, but she was still clammy. "You too hot?"

"No," she mumbled into the mask, and began to cry.

"You feel sick?"

She moaned again, trembling. "Dizzy," she finally said, and tucked her head further into the pillow.

Justine came in with a pink emesis basin. "She's having a bit of a reaction to the morphine. She's dizzy and nauseated, but we haven't found any hives and she's breathing fine." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "The mask is more for emotional support than respiratory. She was pretty sad earlier."

He clicked his tongue. "Zee-vah, why didn't you have someone call me? I would've come."

"Sleeping," she slurred, holding the _s_ between her teeth.

"Not lisping anymore," he observed. "Guess you're not so swollen. And I don't care if I'm sleeping—you call if you need me."

"No more lisp," Justine said happily. "The scabs will probably come off soon. Be prepared for tears when that happens—it can get bloody. Need a coffee or anything?"

"No, I'm good," he replied. "I'm just going to hang with Ziva for the day."

Justine nodded. "I think she could use the company. I'm not sure she can do any therapies today; she's feeling pretty bad. We've held off on moving her after the last roll—she threw up all over Colleen, my aide."

"Oh, honey," he sighed, stroking Ziva's hair. "You'll be ok."

She pulled her hand away from her face and squinted at him. "Li…" she tried, but swallowed and coughed. "Li…um…" She gave up and pointed one finger toward the bedside lamp.

"Light," he said for her, and switched it off. "Better?"

"Yes," she whimpered, and reached for his hand.

She slept away the morning. Tony played games and read the newspaper on his phone. Dr. Miller and Devorah came in just before lunch, tiptoeing and smiling sadly.

"Rough day yesterday, huh?" Devorah asked. "I'm wondering if sitting up caused the neuropathic reaction. If it did, I'm sorry; thought for sure she was ready."

"It's ok," he whispered.

Dr. Miller wrung her hands Abby-style. "And I pushed her so hard. It could have been a stress reaction. Is she sick from the opoids?"

"She has terrible vertigo, but no vomiting since early this morning," he reported dutifully. "She's upset. I think she knows she won't be getting out of bed today."

"I know. Total bummer, huh?" Devorah toyed with her cap, eyebrows furrowed.

Ziva opened her eyes, sniffed, and hummed. "Hi," she said softly, drifting.

Dr. Miller smoothed her hair. "How are you doing, Ziva? Heard you were dizzy."

"I…am…fine," she ground out.

Tony smirked. "Are you showing off now?"

She clicked her tongue, thinking. "I am…I am…ack. I am _ack_." She smiled, finding Devorah in the gloom. "Up? Please?"

She, Tony, and Dr. Miller exchanged surprised glances. "How about just a little bit? I don't want you to get dizzier."

"Ok," she conceded, and fumbled clumsy fingers at the bed controls.

Devorah guided her in the motions and the bed rose, tilting forward so she was just shy of forty-five degrees, and helped her turn from her side to her back. "How's that?"

"Better," she said shyly, and looked deliberately at Tony. _See?_ Her eyes said. _I said the right word_.

He smiled and rubbed her knee. "Brava, Zi. Feeling ok?"

"Yes," she clipped, but closed her eyes tightly.

Dr. Miller patted her hand. "Hey, Ziva? We're not going to do anything today—I want you to feel a lot better before we start again. I'll check in with you tomorrow. If you feel up to it—and _only_ if you feel up to it—you should just practice with Tony a little bit. Name some things, talk about your friends, just try to communicate verbally as much as you can."

"I'm with her," Devorah nodded. "Try to do some massage and stretching today, but I'm not going to lay a hand on you until the vertigo is gone."

"Ok," Ziva huffed, sad. She pried one eye open and peered around the room, confused. "Owl?"

"Here," Tony said, and pressed it into her hand. She closed her fist and hummed, drifting again.

"See you," Devorah said quietly. She followed Dr. Miller into the hallway. Tony didn't doubt they were going to have a brief conversation about the recent backslide.

"You gonna sleep some more, sweet cheeks?"

"No," she sighed. "Hurts to look."

"Headache?"

She rubbed the owl's feathers, thinking. "Um…eye."

"Your eyes hurt?"

She swirled her hand above the bedclothes, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Oh, it makes you dizzy to look around. Should I close the curtains, too? Maybe the light is still too bright." He drew the shades and reduced the grey October light to mere gloom. She sighed audibly in relief. He stared at her for a long moment while she adjusted to the dim; she was pale but not pasty, and her eyes were no longer shifting. "That's better," he sighed.

She smiled vaguely and teased the edge of the quilt. "Bore?"

"I'm not bored," he lied. "I enjoy spending time with you."

She saw right through him. "No," she said clearly. "Bore." She cleared her throat and looked at him—_really_ looked at him. "You sh...shoo…_should_…liff."

"Huh?" He frowned, puzzled. "I should what?"

"Liff," she fumbled. "Leef…" She closed her eyes and rolled her tongue hard. "_Leave_!" She finally said, and blew out a hard breath.

"I should leave? Why? I want to be here. Unless you want some privacy." He swallowed and tried to keep dread from settling in his gut. "Oh," he realized quietly. "You think I should leave you? Ziva, I don't want to. I want to be with you. I'm in love with you."

A tear trickled onto her NG tube. "I…I do not…you…stuck."

He nodded mutely. "Gibbs told me what you said earlier—I'm not letting you push me away. I'm not afraid of you, Zi. I'm not afraid of your being disabled. I mean, I don't want you to be sick or sad or in pain, but I'm not afraid of you being in a wheelchair, even if it's forever. You're a tough little ninja. I know you're going to get better, and if you don't, then oh well I know we can have a really good life together no matter what."

Gingerly, _so_ gingerly, he lowered the safety rail and propped his hip on the bed, then swung one leg onto to the mattress next to hers. She tilted into him and sucked in a breath, unsteady. He caught her easily and pulled her close.

"It's ok. I'll always catch you, ok? Can you trust me to do that?"

She curled in close and wrapped one arm around his. "Try."

"As long as you're trying." He kissed her head.

"I love you," she declared, clear and crisp.

"I love you, too." He kissed her head again. "You trust me, ok?"

"Ok," she echoed.

He pulled away to stand but she tightened her grip on his arm. "No," she warned lowly. "Close."

He settled back on the mattress and hugged her to him. "Close," he agreed, and a heavy, dreamless sleep pulled him downward.

Anya woke him later. "Hey," she whispered. "I'm sorry, but you need to get up. I have to turn her and check for sores."

His left leg—the one that had been dangling off the bed—was completely numb. Shifting his weight so he didn't topple over, he lifted himself up and flopped into the recliner. Anya rolled Ziva onto her left side and swept her hair away to check for bedsores.

"She looks good. Want to wake her up and see if we can get her dressed for a bit?"

He shook his head. "No, let her sleep. I think she's been really stressed."

She nodded. "Well, that cuddle seemed to fix it. The tension in her back and neck has let go a little. She must be calmer."

His phone chirped and he answered it groggily.

It was Gibbs. "Mind if I stop over?"

"No, but Ziva's sleeping now. Be quiet when you come in."

Gibbs pushed the door open, holstering his phone. "Ok," he whispered, smirking. He took one look at Ziva and his smile widened. "She's out cold. I take it you had a talk."

Tony scowled. "You can't tell that by looking at her."

"A father can," he insisted easily. "Things smoothed over?"

"As far as I know." He yawned and pawed at his face. "We both crashed for almost an hour."

Gibbs shrugged at Ziva. "And still going strong. Any seizures today?"

"Not while I was here, and I forgot to ask about this morning. I'll check in with Anya when she brings dinner. Anyone else coming by?"

Ziva sniffed herself awake and blinked around the room. She batted at the oxygen mask. "Off," she commanded raspily.

"Well hi, Ziver," Gibbs said pointedly. "How was your nap?"

"Hi. Ok. Off."

He pushed the call button and Anya came immediately. She switched her from a mask to a cannula. "I'm going to give you half an hour to adjust, and then I want to take it off altogether. Let's see if you can go without it. Need suction?"

Ziva pulled a face. "No!"

"Ok. Back in a bit." She smiled at Gibbs and Tony and left.

"Tim and Abby are on their way," Gibbs informed him. "Why don't you grab a coffee and meet them in the lobby?"

Ziva frowned at him. "No, Abba." He winked at her conspiratorially and she smiled, getting it. "Leave, Tony," she ordered kindly. "Coffee. Pa'sickle, please."

He skulked out, frowning and wondering what they were up to.

Gibbs pulled her hair back in a loose ponytail. "So I was thinking," he began. "Your new house has an extra room. What if we turned that into a man-cave for Tony? Big-screen TV, weight bench, minibar. We'll paint it red and grey for Ohio State and get him premium cable so he can watch all the games. Sound good?"

She fidgeted, smiling. "Yes!"

"Ok, then I'll get some specs and we'll make some blueprints. Want to help pick out furniture?"

"One…time," she cautioned him.

"Yes, one thing at a time. I know you can't do more than that right now."

Her eyes drifted and her hands went slack. Gibbs soothed her through the seizure, then kissed her cheek when she came around. "You ok?"

"Yes."

"What's it like when that happens?"

"Hm?"

"When you check out like that. What is it like?"

"Dunno," she murmured. "Dark?"

He was still playing with her hair. "Yeah? For us, too. You just kinda fade out, but then you're back on in a second or two."

She closed her eyes. "Sorry, Abba."

He sat. "Not your fault. Hopefully we'll get you on the right meds so it doesn't happen anymore. You feeling better after yesterday's scare?"

"Hm. Yes. Dizzy."

"As bad as before?"

"No. Better." She shivered and yanked at the quilt. "Cold."

He tucked her in tightly, rolling her a little to make sure the blanket didn't come loose.

She sighed, content. "Better."

Tony tumbled back into the room, holding a coffee and scowling. "Thought you said he had a bunch of crap to carry? He has one bag, Boss. You just wanted me out."

"Yep," Gibbs replied. "Had to have a chat with Ziver. Whatcha got, McGee?"

"I brought an ergo pillow for under your neck, Ziva. Dr. Monroe had me pick it up for you. Are you still sore between your shoulders?"

"Yes," she conceded slowly, poking at the space-foam with a curious finger. "Ack."

"Want to try it?"

She did, but the thought of moving so he could trade the pillows was a little intimidating. "Um, late?"

"Later," Gibbs corrected. "When Anya comes back in. She wants to start weaning her off the oh-two."

It wasn't Anya that came in when it was time, but Dr. Monroe. She smiled and greeted everyone warmly, then turned to Ziva and plucked the oxygen cannula from under her nose. "Let's take this off for a bit. Your SATs are high and you're color is fantastic." She looked at the team. "Put it back on the minute she starts to struggle. Gasping and wheezing are not ok. Slide it right into her nostrils and loop the tube around her ears. It should tighten by itself. Also, Ziva, I want to check the pressure sores on your back. Can you roll over for me?"

Her eyes widened. "Me?"

"Yep. We'll help, but you need to push, too. I noticed that last time you made Justine do all the work. You want to go to the gym? Then get proactive."

"Up," she demanded suddenly.

"You want to sit up? Fine. You can lean forward if someone will catch. You want Tony or Abba?" Dr. Monroe was already lifting the head of the bed.

"Um," she drawled.

"Abba it is, then. He's closer. I'll pull her shoulders forward, Gibbs. You sit on the mattress and put your weight into her. I'll keep her head steady."

It happened faster than he expected; the doctor shifted her forward easily, and within a second Ziva was propped against him, panting softly against his collar. He wrapped both arms under hers and she latched onto the short sleeves of his polo.

"You ok?" He breathed in her ear.

"Ok, Abba."

Dr. Monroe poked at the healing sores on her shoulders and nape. "They look better, but I don't want to put you back in anything too restrictive. You need some support, though. Devorah said your head snapped forward pretty hard yesterday. Did that hurt?"

"Yes," she muttered shyly. "Hurt _hard_."

Tony didn't bother to correct her; it had hurt _hard_. The sad little noise she made nearly tore him in two.

"Lean her back, Gibbs. I got her head."

They pushed her back against the mattress and she sighed. "Better."

"How do your hands feel, Ziva?" Dr. Monroe pinched each fingertip gently to check the color. "Your circulation is good. Any pain or numbness?"

"Um, bugs?"

Tony tittered. "I think she means pins and needles."

Ziva frowned at him, insulted. It was the best way she could describe the sensation of insects walking across the backs of her hands and wrists.

"That's normal," the doctor assured her. "I am a little worried about that sudden loss of muscle control. Did you lose consciousness when it happened?"

"No." She'd been awake and desperate to go for a walk.

"Did you have trouble lifting your head afterward?"

"No."

"Were there any other strange symptoms?"

"She punched herself in the mouth," Gibbs supplied. "She drooled a little and tried to wipe it away, but her hand spasmed and knocked her lip against her teeth. Drew blood, but she was fine." He dragged a knuckle down her arm.

"Oh yeah? Can I see the cut?" Ziva delicately tilted her face toward the doctor and pain shot down her arms. She ignored it. Dr. Monroe gently teased her lower lip down so she could see the inside. "Yep, you got a little fight-bite. Are you having trouble swallowing because of the scabs?"

"Hm. Yes."

"Well tell the nurses to keep you suctioned from now on. I know you hate it, but I don't want you to choke when you're doing so well. Do you like applesauce?"

"Yes." She liked anything she could eat without having it poured up her nose.

"I'll have Justine bring you some at lunchtime. I want you to start eating a little bit. We'll start with soft, bland things first and then move on when your stomach is ready. Did Dr. Miller have you chew on anything yet?"

"No," Gibbs supplied. "I think she was going to but after the crash yesterday she didn't want to push her too far."

"Understood. Tomorrow we see how your oral-motor skills are and start on some real food. Any questions?"

Ziva grabbed her sleeve. "Devorah...sit…walk…Tony."

Dr. Monroe nodded. "I know. She said you can go for a walk if you can handle the transfer. You'll try it tomorrow."

She huffed impatiently. "Ok."

"Patient, Ziva. You want a popsicle before I go?"

"Yes. Tony?"

"I'm on it, Zi." He sprinted out.

The doctor checked her throat and prodded at her shoulders and collarbones. "I know you won't like this, but I want to put you in a collar."

The tears were immediate. "No, please!"

Gibbs took her hand. "Just listen first, Ziver."

"You only have to wear it if you're out of bed. Otherwise, you can leave it off. I think I'll go with a Miami collar; it's not nearly as restrictive as the other things you've been prescribed, and you'll only need it for a few weeks. We'll do some x-rays in the morning, and then I'll fit you when I come by before speech. Maybe I'll even stick around with Dr. Miller and let you show off for me."

"Ok," she sniffled, gripping Gibbs' hand.

"Relax with your friends for tonight. Hey! Where's Abby?"

"Picking up dinner." Tim interjected. "Do you have a minute to talk to me about a study in Atlanta? I heard they're going to move it up here after the first of the year."

"Sure. Let's go to my office."

Tim followed her out. "Save me something to eat," he told Ziva. She smiled and agreed that she would.

Ziva turned to Gibbs sour-faced. "Do not _want_," she said tightly.

"I know, but we got rid of everything else. You're pretty unsteady, Ziver. You worked really hard to get back what you have, I don't want you to get hurt any worse and lose it all over again."

She drifted, thinking of how helpless she'd been in those early days—how she'd been suctioned every fifteen minutes, unable to cough or speak or think. How the nurses had to arrange her arms on pillows to keep the pain under control. How she'd been braced and splinted to keep her muscles from shortening. She flexed her hands—they were weak, but not useless—and scrubbed feebly at her eyes. One of those strange, hot sparks traveled down her back and into her leg.

"Abba? Can..um…hm." She puzzled for a minute, unsure what she was asking for.

"What, Ziver? How can I help you?"

She stared down at her legs. Her knees were propped on pillows and angled outward. She poked idly at her right thigh. "Can you…um…just…" She huffed, frustrated.

Gibbs followed her gaze. "You want me to stretch you out? Did anyone do that today?"

"No," she snorted. "Sleep."

"Say _stretch_ for me."

"St…st…strek…" She huffed again. "Hard."

"I know it's hard," he replied, standing up and pulling her hands with him. "Do it anyway." He bent and flexed the way he'd been shown and her muscles softened, lengthened in his hands.

She sighed. "Stre..sh. No. Stre-t-ch. Stretch."

"Good job, Ziver." She pulled her arms back under the blankets.

Tony returned, out of breath. "I had to go all the way to the third floor. The charge nurse cleaned out the freezer and sent Ziva's popsicles down to Oncology."

She smiled and laid her hand over his, guiding the popsicle to her mouth.

Gibbs rotated her right hip in its socket and bent her ankle. The skin warmed under his hand. "Ready? Push." He bent her knee and she resisted, still slurping on her delicacy.

"Very nonchalant," Tony observed, smiling.

She smiled and pushed his hand away. "Done."

"Ok. I'll finish it."

Gibbs switched legs, massaged, stretched, and bent her left knee. "Push again, Ziver."

She resisted, but a deep, electrifying pain dug hard into her back and she stopped abruptly. "Oh," she sighed, surprised. "_Oh._ Back, Abba."

"That hurt your back?"

"Yes!" She demanded. "Oh, ow." She closed her eyes and her breathing grew ragged.

Tony slid the cannula back on, pushing the tube gently behind each ear. "What happened, sweet cheeks? Charley horse?"

Anya crashed back in as the computer told her something was amiss. "Tell me what you did," she demanded of Gibbs.

"Stretched her legs. Had her push and her back cramped up."

She slid her hand beneath Ziva's lower back. "Roll her. I think she's got a muscle all balled up."

Tony and Gibbs turned her and she swept the quilt away, holding up the edge in the name of modesty. "Yeah, she's got a nice charley horse. Prop her up. I'll get a heating pad and we'll try to work it out."

Gibbs peered down into her face. "You ok?"

She swung a hand at him. "_Hurt,_ Abba," she grumbled.

He laughed in relief; he'd been prepared to console her after she fell apart in self-pity. The fire in her eyes was a pleasant change.

Tony untangled her ponytail and rubbed some of the muscle-relaxant crème over the knot. "Geez, sweetheart, you're sure giving us a run for our money lately. How about you chill out and just get better from now on?"

She swallowed, concentrated, and put together her first whole sentence in weeks. "How about…you…_shush, _Tony? I am _try_. Try_ing_." She glared at him satisfactorily.

He guffawed. "Shushing now, Zi."

"About time," Gibbs agreed, smirking. "I've been trying to shut you up for years."

Abby strolled in, laden with white bags of takeout. "Ugh. Me, too." She put her cache on the table and pulled the photo of Zlata Dvorak out of her pocket. "Ziva, you do know who this is?"

Ziva blinked, working her mouth in aggravation. "Hm. Yes."

"Who is it?"

"_Savta-raba," _she sighed. "Name."

Gibbs, Tony, and Abby all shook their heads, not understanding.

"What does that mean, Zi?" Tony asked gently.

She closed her eyes, thinking. "Um. Her name…me."

"Her name is Zlata, Ziva," Abby said gently.

Ziva looked at her dully. "Yes," she said slowly, but couldn't find the retort she wanted. She sighed, looked away, and began to cry.

"And we were doing so well," Tony said, defeated. "Thanks, Abby."

She pointed an angry finger at him. "Don't get pissed at me, Tony. This isn't anyone's fault but Carvelli's."

"Who?" Ziva asked, tears stopping momentarily.

"No one," Gibbs said firmly. "We're just exploring a few angles about the guy who hurt you. It's fine. You're safe."

"I _know_," she smarted off. He just gave her a warning look and stroked her cheek. Her eyes flickered and Tony adjusted the heating pad on her back and steadied her with a cushion.

"Seizure," Gibbs said unnecessarily.

Abby clicked her tongue. "Sorry," she whispered.

Gibbs pulled her close. "It's ok, Abbs. She's frustrated."

She came around quickly, but drifted off to sleep immediately. Gibbs, Tony, and Abby fell into an easy silence, comforted by one another's presence.

Tim tiptoed back in, clutching his computer. "Ziva will be eligible for the study I found when it comes here in January. The results have been pretty amazing, so I hope she has some success with it."

Abby thrust the photograph at him. "Can you find this woman's records? Ziva said something like 'Safta-roba' about her."

"Great-grandmother," he translated easily. "I'll run a search right now." His face fell as he looked at Ziva. "She had another seizure, didn't she?"

"Yeah," Tony said roughly.

"I'm sorry. I'll talk to Dr. Monroe again tomorrow. Maybe the Dilantin isn't working for her."

"Thanks, Tim. I mean it, really. You've been a huge help."

"This is my area of expertise, Tony. I'm just sorry that this is how I get to use it."

"Ziver appreciates it," Gibbs supplied.

Abby curled into the recliner. "Why don't you guys go have a beer? I'll stay here with Zivvie in case she wakes up."

Tony balked. "I don't know, Abby. She's kinda…fragile right now."

"Well I won't break her," she replied. "I'll wear the kiddest of kid gloves. Just go."

Ziva woke with a start. "Where?"

"The guys are going to have a beer. Boys only. We're not invited."

"Ok," she agreed. "Stay?"

"Of course! We're having a slumber party."

Ziva smiled up at her and looked to her cadre of admirers. "Bye," she said deliberately.

The shuffled out with guilty well-wishes on their lips.

"Abby, you…hair?" She motioned to her tangled curls with weak fingers. "I…cannot."

"Sure. Let me get a brush and I'll take the knots out. Want me to do your nails, too?"

"Um…ok."

"I won't cut the cuticles or paint them black, I'll just cut and file them. You'll feel like a million bucks, I promise."

Ziva smiled again and blushed. "Love you, Abby," she mumbled.

Abby sat in the recliner and grinned, bouncing a little. "I love you, too, Zivvie. Here, let me give you a manicure."


	16. First Try

__**Thank you. The Mecha loves you.**

_I'm struggling with the limits of this ordinary life._

_ -Tracy Chapman, "First Try."_

Tony cruised into Ziva's room nursing a mild hangover. He, Gibbs, and Tim had played it safe, sipping beers and munching on fried jalapeno peppers until one of Tim's MIT classmates—a bland-looking engineer with a taste for Brazilian cashaça—showed up to watch the Redskins lose to Green Bay. He ordered half a dozen rounds and kept the conversation light until Gibbs slapped Tony on the shoulder, said, _you got an early call-out, _and drove him home. When he awoke at five, frowning into the dark and tripping over shoes, he'd retraced his footsteps, found his car, and drove immediately to the nearest coffee shop before punching the elevator button for the neuro floor. Ziva's bed was gone—out for x-rays—and Abby was still dozing on the cot, long legs splayed.

She blinked at him. "_Why," _she rasped, "do they come get her _so early_?"

He passed her a Caf-Pow and his jacket—she had goosebumps. "Doc starts rounds at six. Guess they wanted pictures before then."

She swung around and sat up. Her pigtails were crooked and poked out at crazy angles. "Do they really need to make so much noise? You would've thought they were a construction crew. Ugh, like…jackhammers." She took a long drink and sighed. "But this makes it ok."

Tony rubbed her shoulder. "How did she do last night?"

"She was fine. I gave her a mani-pedi and combed the knots out of her hair. Can you _please _remember to do that once in a while? She was a mess and the nurse wouldn't let me use any leave-in conditioner. Thought I was pulling her head off."

"She get upset?" He kicked back in the recliner and yanked his wallet and phone of his pockets, sighing when his lower back thanked him.

"Nope. I checked, but she was quiet."

"Seizure-quiet or I-have-my-owl-and-a-popsicle-quiet?"

"The second one. Probably because she had her owl and a popsicle. She insisted on feeding herself. Made a total mess, but she did it."

He grinned, stupidly proud. "She's getting a little ballsy, isn't she?"

Abby sobered. "I think she feels like she has a lot to prove. She has a lot to get back. And a really long way to go."

"I know, but let's celebrate the small things. It's nice to see some of that independence again, even if she is a little pissy."

Two aides rolled Ziva's bed back in, wiggling the casters to get it back in the proper place. Tony jumped up and grabbed her hand.

"Morning, sweet cheeks. How was the photoshoot?"

She scowled. "They…they…put under and…and…"

"Slow down," he coached quietly. "Try again. They put something under you? Did it hurt?"

One of the aides spoke up for her. "They used a hoist to get her onto the x-ray table. It's a kind of sling that they slid under her and hooked to a frame on wheels. She didn't appreciate it, to put it politely."

"No," she said firmly. "I did _not_."

Tony bent a little and kissed her brow. "Sh, Zi, you're ok."

She used one weak fist to punch him in the chest. "Do not baby," she warned tartly. "No."

He held up both hands. "Fine, I won't. But when you come back and you're all mad and pale I might get a little protective, ok?"

"Fine," she huffed. "But…but wait them…liff…_leave_."

He smiled knowingly. "Alright, I gotcha."

Abby stretched and finger-combed her hair. "Zivvie, I need to get to the lab. I probably have a zillion things waiting for me. Can I trust Tony to brush your hair once in a while?"

Ziva smiled. "Yes. You…say…him?"

"I told him." She bent, kissed her cheek, and squeezed her hands. "I'll be back later. Call me if you need anything."

"Bye," she said shyly. "Thank you."

Abby knotted her fingers together, blushing. "You're so welcome!" She chirped, and ran out.

"Did you have fun last night?" Tony asked innocently.

She gave him a thorough once-over and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You more," she said, smirking. "Your…eye?...red. Beer?"

"Among other things," he acknowledged. "Met up with one of McNerd's Dungeons and Dragons cohorts. Man, that guy can _drink_. He knocked back at least a dozen shots of some rum-thing without even a red nose. Impressive."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure," she muttered, then yawned.

"Busy morning," he agreed. "Take a break. I'll sit here with my cold coffee and watch you breathe."

"No…no…um…that." She pointed to the wall-mounted oxygen unit.

"Nope. Nice. Now _sh_. It's time to sleep."

She couldn't argue and closed her eyes.

Dr. Monroe walked in just as Ziva's breathing evened out. "Hi," she whispered. "I don't want to wake her."

Tony smiled and nodded. "Too late."

Ziva was blinking but hadn't moved. "Hi," she squeaked. "Tired. They put under and…" She lifted one hand from the bedclothes and swooped it in mid-air.

"They moved you with a sling?" Dr. Monroe confirmed. "Was it painful?"

"Yes," she sighed. "Back."

And neck?"

Ziva looked away. "Small."

The doctor nodded. "How about your hands?"

"Do not touch," she warned hotly. "I do not want. Tired."

"I understand," Dr. Monroe said kindly. "But we need to do a few things if you want to try sitting up today. Are you still ready for that, or should we wait?"

"No," she said quickly. "Ready."

Tony and the doctor shared a quick grin. "So I looked at your films. Your neck is healing very well. The pain in your hands is referred pain; it should fade as your injuries heal. So, do you remember what I said yesterday about a collar for you?"

Ziva's smile darkened. "Yes."

"I think it'll help with the pain. I brought a Miami J collar with me. I'd like you to try it for a few minutes. I'll take it off right away if you get upset."

"Ok," she sniffled.

"Tony? I'm going to have you help me so you learn how to do this."

Justine came in, smiling. "Morning, everyone. Dr. Monroe, you need my help this morning?"

Tony stood. "I don't know, but can you just watch to make sure I do this right? I get a little skeevy about moving Ziva around."

"No problem. Ziva, do you need anything?"

"No," she grumbled, watching Dr. Monroe warily. "Maybe no…_that_." She waved a hand at the collar the doctor was preparing.

"Ok, Tony, I'm going to slide the back of this behind her head. You catch and make sure it's aligned. It shouldn't wiggle around if her head is seated properly." She pushed the back behind her neck and Tony slid it easily towards him.

"Hey," he said happily. That wasn't too hard. Doin' ok, sweet cheeks?"

"Fine," she sulked.

"Attagirl," Dr. Monroe congratulated. "Now I'm going to scoop the front under your chin. It won't hurt and it shouldn't be tight on your throat. Ready?"

Ziva didn't have time to respond; the collar was fitted, adjusted, and fastened in one motion. She opened her mouth to protest, but the tingling in the backs of her hands ceased. Amazed, he held them up to her face, blinking.

"Done," she said, rolling her eyes to look at the doctor. "My hands…done."

She smiled. "Thought so. I know you don't like the tunnel-vision effect of immobilizers, but I want to give you the chance to heal. Can you tolerate this for ten minutes?"

"Yes," Ziva agreed readily, still studying her hands.

"Ok, I'll step out for a few minutes. Dr. Miller will be here when I get back. I can't wait for her to see how much you've improved since yesterday."

Tony brushed a knuckle down her arm. "Ninja warrior," he said proudly, grinning. "So driven."

She blushed. "I want normal, Tony."

"Me, too."

He stroked her hair and brow while she drifted for the five minutes between doctors. She fidgeted when Dr. Miller came in, smiling and looking relieved.

"Well you sure are alert this morning. How's your pain?"

"Better," she announced quietly, and swept her fingers over the front of her new collar. "This…" she mused, rolling her eyes. "Now hands…done."

"Oh, good. You're comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful. I know Dr. Monroe wants you to eat something today—or try to—so I want to see how you chew and swallow. Eating food is different than just swallowing on-command, so don't be upset if you can't do it. How far can you open your mouth?"

Ziva demonstrated—halfway, thanks to her new accessory.

"That's better than I thought it would be. Here; chew on this for me." Dr. Miller handed her what looked like a plastic hammer and pointed at the top. "Stick that right in your mouth and bite on it. I want to see how hard you can bear down."

Ziva complied, tearing a bit at the plastic. "Hard," she admitted.

"Well you won't be eating anything that hard. I'm just testing your strength. Bite down as hard as you can. Try to leave tooth marks."

Again she complied, but pulled back suddenly and wiped at her mouth. Her cheeks went red. Tony put a hand on her arm and she jerked away, embarrassed.

"It's ok," Dr. Miller said quietly. "Oral-motor exercises are going to make you salivate. They're designed that way so I know you can handle food. Let me see your bite marks—Oh, hey, very nice. Good strong jaw, Ziva."

Dr. Miller coached her through tongue and pharyngeal exercises, flashcards, and grouping until she saw Ziva's eyelids drooping and her hands grow limp.

Tony adjusted the quilt. "It's been an hour and a half. Should we take a break?"

She glanced at her watch. "Let's give her an hour and then we'll do lunch. Ziva, take a nap. We're not done yet."

She blinked, smiled, and grabbed a handful of Tony's sweater, half-asleep.

Dr. Monroe swept back in as Miller was leaving. "I'm so sorry," she sighed. "I got called away on an emergency. How did she do? Any pain?"

Tony shook his head. "No, actually. She did great. Worn out now, though. I heard we're doing lunch in an hour?"

She smiled. "We'll bring in the whole crew for that because there are so many parts to it. I'll be here and so will Devorah and Dr. Miller. I think Dev wants to see if she's ready to transfer to a wheelchair this afternoon. I'll probably stick around for that, too."

"Thanks," he said happily. "I'm glad you're so involved in Ziva's care. It makes me feel like she'll make better progress."

"I hope so," she shrugged, smiling. "It's my job and my research to see how women handle these life-changing events. For someone like Ziva it means her whole identity is at stake. I want her to maintain as much of her old self as possible, but learn to adapt to a new way of living. You might want to get something to eat while she's asleep. Might be a long time before you see food again."

"I can eat while she's working with Devorah. I might call my friend to bring me some lunch."

Dr. Monroe shook her head. "No, you'll be working, too. Eat now. Trust me."

Tony stroked Ziva's hair from her sleeping face and dialed McGee's cell.

. . . .

Abby leaned close to the monitor and then jerked away, squinting. She did it again, then again, finally cocking her head and spinning around. Gibbs stood in front of her with a Caf-Pow and a coffee.

"The hell you trying to do, Abbs? Ruin your eyesight?"

"All these Ellis Island records are still in the recorder's handwriting. They just digitized the images, not the actual files. I've been staring at them for two hours. Got through thirty pages before my vision got wonky. Did Timmy find anything yet?"

"Nope. But you should've by now."

She pawed the cup from his hand. "Zlata and Eliezer Dvorak arrived at Ellis Island in 1907. Their relative's address listed an apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, but there's no record of where the Dvorak's moved to once they left the quarantine center. _Then_ there's a small note on the declaration forms of the Scandinavian-American S.S. United States that named them as passengers to London in 1912. Beyond that, nothing."

He nodded. "Any connection to Ziva?"

"None that I can find yet. Still looking." She squinted at the photo of Zlata Dvorak again. "You can't tell me they're not related, Gibbs. Look at the resemblance."

"I know. Keep digging. You bowling with your nuns tonight?"

Abby blushed a little. "Do you think it's ok? I'm willing to cancel and if you think Ziva needs me."

He kissed her head. "You did a really good thing last night. Take some time for your friends."

She saluted, smiling. "Thanks, Gibbs. I'll call you as soon as I have more. Got a good optometrist? My twenty-twenty vision is going to hell in a handbasket."

He signed _I love you_ and stepped into the elevator.

Tim was hunched over his desk, looking quickly between the monitor and a form on the desk.

"Whatcha got, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

He looked up, surprised. "I found two articles online about the Hebraization of surnames in immigrants to Israel. Many people dropped Germanic or Slavic suffixes as a means to assimilate. Rosenburg became Rosen, Jacobovitz became Ya'akovi. People with priestly ancestors became Cohens or Levis, and some adopted the names of Holocaust victims, or Biblical last names as surnames. For example _Ben Yehuda_ or _Sha'uli _or _Davidi._

"Or _David_," Gibbs finished for him. "Where were Eli's parents from again?"

"Bratislava. Called Pressburg in the German-speaking world."

Gibbs studied another copy of the Ellis Island photograph. It was stuck to the pinboard behind Tim's desk. "I think Eliezer and Zlata were his grandparents. So if they emigrated to America, why the hell did they turn tail and run?"

"Sounds hinky," Tim posited, channeling Abby.

"Hinky is the least of it. And what's up with Carvelli and DeCroo?"

He ducked his head, sighing. "Thomas DeCroo killed himself in prison last night. Metro is doing an autopsy—they think he was palming his meds. I wonder if it wasn't deliberate."

Gibbs sighed, rubbed his eyes. "You tell DiNozzo?"

He shook his head. "I don't want to tell him in front of Ziva. Apparently she's having a really good day. I got a text from him earlier that said she was nailing those flashcards."

Gibbs smirked, puffing his chest like a proud father. "She's a pistol, that one."

. . . .

Devorah's easy way put Ziva in a good mood when she woke from her nap. She was given a massage and a long stretch, then instructed to sit up straight—it was hard to figure out which button was _up_—and let Tony snap her collar back on.

"Ok," Devorah said, clapping her hands and rolling the table over to the bed. Today, you eat. First things first; you need some utensils. Here."

A fat-handled fork and spoon were placed in front of her. Ziva toyed with them a little before Devorah interceded and made her commit.

"Pick up the spoon and hold it out for me."

She did, but it tipped a little in her hand.

"Uh oh. Well, that's why we have this." She tightened a strap around Ziva's knuckles so she couldn't drop it.

"Put it in your mouth."

She hesitated, feeling silly.

"Do it, _sabra_. I need to see your coordination."

She stuck the bowl of the spoon between her lips and furrowed her brow.

"Excellent. Now we move on to the good stuff."

She produced a high-sided plastic bowl with a wide, stable bottom and non-skid treads. In it was a quarter of a cup of yellowish applesauce. With gentle movements, Devorah lead her through scooping, balancing, and mouthing the contents. Swallowing was difficult. She hesitated again.

"What's wrong?" Tony asked immediately. "Does it hurt?"

She let her hand fall to the table. "It is _hard_. It is…much."

"Too much to swallow at one time?" Devorah worried. "Let's try a smaller bite."

Again, Ziva was assisted through the process. Only a minute amount of applesauce ended up on the spoon this time, but it still felt unmanageable on her palate. Swallowing feebly, she picked the strap from around her hand and dropped the spoon to the table.

"I do not want," she warbled. "It is too…too…hard. It…I…"

Devorah took both of her hands—an indication that she had something important to say. "Ziva? What's wrong?"

She wouldn't make eye contact. Tony shifted in his chair and stroked her cheek.

"Ziva?" Devorah tried again. "I need you to look at me. I need to ask you a very serious question."

Steeling herself, she looked. Her therapist's eyes were clear blue and concerned.

"You've been really anxious to be independent, but when it comes down to taking the steps, you seem to get nervous or agitated. Can you tell me why?"

Ziva looked away. "No."

Dr. Miller stepped in and took a seat without saying anything.

Tony stroked her cheek again. "Zi, please tell us why you're afraid."

"I am not," she muttered.

"Then why are you not eating? You have good oral-motor control and a strong swallow. Why are you telling me it's too much?"

She refused to cry. "Because…is."

Dr. Miller was not about to let her shut down. "Ziva," she said sharply, pushing the bowl and spoon away, "there is no reason you can't eat. Now I want you to explain how you feel, and then try again with your spoon."

She leaned back into the pillows. "Feel…"she started. "Feel…" She fumbled, searching, for long minutes, before throwing her hands over her face, shielding herself from Tony, Devorah, and Miller. "Feel _this_," she said from underneath.

"Ashamed? Like hiding?"

"Yes." Her voice was tearful and her hands had not come down.

"That's normal. You're relearning stuff you mastered as a baby; of course you feel ashamed. But it'll get easier if you practice."

Devorah tugged her arms down. "C'mon, Sabra," she said gently. "Everyone is here to help. We won't make fun; we just want you to eat. You _did_ say you liked applesauce."

Ziva picked up her spoon again and let Tony tighten the strap. "Ok," she grouched. Devorah raised a hand to wrap around hers and she flinched. "No. Me."

"Ok. Do it yourself. I'll just watch to make sure it doesn't end up in your nose. Or Tony's."

She smiled a little and easily scooped applesauce into her mouth. She swallowed without flinching. "It is…ok," she said finally. "But…small."

"She'll only eat a little bit," Tony translated. "Brava, Zee-vah. You're doing beautifully."

"I _know_," she said, cheeky, and ate another bite. "Done," she declared.

"Nope," Devorah replied. "Eat three more."

Ziva blinked. "Huh?"

"Three more bites. I'll count."

The desire to shake her head swam up out of the depths. "Done," she announced again, looking at Dr. Miller.

"Devorah wants you to eat more," she explained. "She wants you to take three more bites."

"No," she said, confused. "Done."

"Eat another bite," Miller ordered gently.

Ziva's eyes flickered and her spoon banged against the tabletop.

"Never mind," Tony sighed, and steadied her trembling arm. He stroked her cheek while Devorah and Dr. Miller had a quiet conversation about medication and stress levels and questionable comprehension before the onset of seizure. Dr. Monroe had been paged sometime in those minutes, and she came in with a drawn, sad face.

"What happened?" She asked softly, taking worried notes.

Devorah sighed. "She had about two minutes of compromised comprehension and then a seizure. She still hasn't come around. We're going on four minutes now."

Tony's eyes were dry. "We were doing so well. She was having a great day—eating, talking, working really hard…"

Monroe nodded. "I think these episodes are stress-related. Anytime she gets frustrated or angry she cuts out on us. I think we should do a CT scan and switch anticonvulsants. These breakthrough events are bad for her memory and cognitive function."

Ziva came slowly back to reality and stared at the four concerned faces around her. "What?" She demanded, but their expressions were enough of an answer. "Oh."

"How do you feel?" Dr. Monroe asked. Devorah pulled the table away and lowered the bed a little.

Ziva sighed. "Ok. Dizzy. Tired."

"I'm going to order a CT. I think we need to do some medication management."

"Um…um…you say…sit. I want…walk. With Tony." She looked away, disappointed.

Devorah laid a strong hand on her arm. "Let's see how long we have to wait for the scan. If there's time, then we'll get you up in a chair. If not, we'll do it tomorrow. I think you're already exhausted."

"No," she said sharply. "_Not_. I want walk with Tony."

Dr. Miller, Dr. Monroe, and Devorah all shared raised eyebrows. A silent conversation ensued.

Tony stepped in, treading lightly. "I think we should let her try. I mean, I'm no doctor, but if Ziva wants to push herself, why shouldn't we encourage it?"

Devorah agreed. "I think it's fine. Sabra gets what she wants. I'll call Freddie; you need a lesson in transfers—_both _of you. Have him bring a chair. Ziva is bustin' out of that bed."

. . . .

McGee's head came up so fast that Gibbs thought it might go right through the acoustic ceiling tiles. Eyes wide, Adam's apple bobbing, he stuttered for a second before declaring _I got something here, Boss_.

Gibbs came around his desk. "Yeah?"

"Eliezer Dvorak was arrested in connection with the death of gangster Max Zweifach in Coney Island, Brooklyn, but was later released without being formally charged. He was also questioned in connection to the Yiddish Black Hand, The Neighbor's Boys, and a few other smaller factions that were active in racketeering, narcotics, and prostitution."

"Mob stuff? Thought all those New York gangbangers were Italian?"

"Jewish-American organized crime was established earlier than the Italian mob, but they were looser and much less sophisticated. It wasn't until Prohibition that the Five Families tightened the ranks and ran much of the Yiddish-speaking mafia out of town."

Gibbs nodded, thinking. "You think this is that old? Ziva's great-grandfather got involved with some street urchins and Carvelli was looking to settle a score?"

Tim shrugged. "I think anything is possible." He spared a glance at the photo of Zlata still posted on his pinboard. "I'll look into Jewish-Italian rivalry on the Lower East Side. My gut's telling me we're onto something."

"Your gut, huh? Well, mine's telling me that I'm going to the hospital at five. You with me?"

He nodded. "Tony texted me. Ziva's having a CT this evening and we're going to meet about changing some of her meds. Said he wants me in on it."

. . . .

"Ok, Ziv," Devorah said grandly, "now, you're up."

With strength and confidence she slid one arm behind Ziva shoulder, another beneath her knees, and spun around to sit on the edge of the bed, legs dangling.

Ziva paled. "Oh," she said softly, and reached out for something to steady her.

Devorah hadn't let go of her shoulders. "You've been in bed for a long time, _sabra_. You're vestibular system is kind of a mess. It might be a few minutes before we can move you again. Breathe steady. I won't let you fall."

Ziva couldn't respond; it took entirely too much energy not to beg to lie back down. The room was spinning, her legs were tingling, useless, and her hands worked the fabric of the quilt ineffectually.

Tony knelt before her. "You're doing great, Zi. Feet on the floor and everything." He worked the quilt out of her right hand and gripped it with both of his.

"Yes," she muttered weakly, unable to look down. "Bugs," she agreed.

Dr. Monroe put a hand on her shoulder. "Your feet are tingling, Ziva?"

"Yes."

"That's a good sign; any sensation can be built upon."

Ziva just grunted, though the spinning was slowing down and the clamminess was leaching from her skin. Devorah continued to steady her until she flexed her hands, reached for Tony's shirt, and said, "Ok."

"You're ready? Great. Tony? Take your place."

He crouched in front of Ziva and used the side of his left foot to steady both of hers. She grit her teeth and wrapped both arms around his neck, but not before giving him a steady, trustful look.

"I've got you. I'll always catch, remember?"

"Yes."

Hooking both hands under her hips, Tony hoisted her into the waiting wheelchair, sliding her back into the seat and holding on until Dr. Monroe wove a padded belt around her middle, securing her.

"And you're in!" He announced.

Ziva's arms were still around his neck. She was panting and had his shirt knotted in her fists. "Do not…"she begged lowly. "I…I…hold, _please_."

Devorah rubbed her arms, gently teasing them from around Tony's neck. "You're ok, Ziv. You're safe. Dr. Monroe put a strap on you so you can't fall out. Relax and lean back a little."

She obeyed, still panting, while Devorah lifted her legs and positioned her feet on the footrest. Anya dragged the quilt off the bed and into her lap, tucking it tightly around her legs.

Tony crouched in front of her again. "Look at you, sweet cheeks. All dressed up and ready to go." He smiled proudly.

Ziva's eyes were wet and darting. Her mouth twisted and her hand came up to cover it.

He embraced her awkwardly, though it was their first hug in weeks. "It's ok," he cooed. "I know."

Devorah's blue eyes were also a little teary, but she swallowed and shook her head. "We'll give you a minute alone," she whispered, and she and the doctor stepped into the hallway.

Tony pulled back and dried her tears with his sleeve. "It's scary, huh?"

"Yes," she wheedled, and a fresh wave of tears tore lose. "I do not…I cannot…"

"Yes you can," he said slowly. "You can do whatever you need to do. Whatever you _want_ to do. I'm here, and I'll protect you."

She cried harder still, trembling.

Tony brushed her hair into a ponytail and pulled her close again to whisper nonsense comfort-words into her ear until the sobs slowed and she wiped at her face.

"Ok," she gulped. "I am ok." She looked around the room, then back at him. "I am ok," she repeated.

Devorah and Dr. Monroe came back in. "Better now?" The doctor asked. She, too, was suspiciously red-eyed.

"Better," Ziva confirmed. "Maybe…" She looked to the door and gestured. "Walk?"

"Only go half as far as you think you can," she warned. "Because getting back is much harder than it seems."

Tony took the handles. "You navigate, Zi. Want to go to the atrium? It has…plants. And a sweeping view of the parking garage."

"Yes," she said quickly. "Go, Tony."

He wheeled her down the hallway to the atrium and right up to the window overlooking the parking garage and the Maronite church behind it. She looked wide-eyed at the iron-grey sky, the bare trees, and the wet traffic on 14th Street.

"Pretty depressing out there, huh?" He shrugged and pulled a chair over to sit next to her. "It's been so cold and grey for weeks. I'm sick of it. When you get out of here I'm taking you on vacation. Someplace hot. And I'm not packing anything for you but a bikini."

Ziva stretched out one small fist and punched him in the throat. He gagged, shocked.

"I _cannot_, Tony. I _cannot_. That is not…not…" She paused to scrub at her eyes. "It. Is. Not. Rare? Fra….Fa…_Fair!"_

"What's not _fair_?" He demanded. "That I love you? That I want to do normal things with you? Regular_-_people things? What am I supposed to do then, Ziva? Sit around and feel sorry for you? You told me earlier not to baby you, and now you're telling me that I can't take you out to do romantic couple things together. You can't have it both ways."

She fell silent, chewing her lips. The rain splattered on the glass in a sudden gust of wind and she jumped, looking at him wild-eyed.

"I love you," she said softly, apologizing. "I am…sorr-ee. Hit."

"I love you, too. And it's ok. But you're not going to be in the hospital forever. The world is out there, and it's a sadder place without you. Come back to it. Come back to _me_. I hate having to share you with all these doctors and nurses."

"Me, too," she realized, and puckered her mouth, asking for a kiss. He obliged her, of course, but she waved a hand back toward the hallway.

"Back," she said, apologizing again. "I need…back." Her face was pale and sad.

"That's ok. We'll come out again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that."

He wheeled her back into her room. Gibbs was standing there waiting for them, a proud smile on his face.

"Hi Ziver," he greeted warmly. "How ya doing?"

"Abba! I am…I need to back…bed."

Tony pushed her wheelchair up to the bed, parking it a forty-five degree angle as he'd been taught. Gibbs tugged off the quilt, undid the safety belt at her waist, and used his foot to put both of hers on the floor. Then he scooped her back onto the bed in one smooth, well-rehearsed move.

_He's done this before,_ Tony thought, rubbing his new bruise.

Ziva refused to let go of Gibbs for a long moment. She leaned into him, fisting the collar of his polo, breathing his aftershave.

"Brave girl," he praised into her hair. "My little pistol." He smiled and lowered her back against the mattress.

She furrowed her brow. "Sof'…_soft. _Better."

"Dr. Monroe ordered you an air mattress. She said you're getting flat on one side. This'll help."

She rolled her eyes and tugged at the quilt, then fumbled with the straps on her Miami collar. "Off," she demanded curtly.

Tony released the Velcro and lowered the bed. "It's been a banner day, Zi. You could probably use a nap."

She hummed in agreement but shifted. "Need over."

Gibbs helped her roll on her right side, stuffed a pillow between her knees, and banked the cushions around her, then left a lingering cheek on her temple.

"Sleep tight," he said, but she didn't respond—the sandman had come, swift and certain.

Two aides the size of defensive ends came in and released the brakes on Ziva's bed. She didn't stir.

"We're taking her downstairs for a CT," the bigger one said. "Dr. Monroe said to get some dinner. She'll talk to you on late rounds."

Gibbs nodded. "C'mon, DiNozzo. Let's grab some takeout at D'Amico's."

Anya waved them toward the elevator. "She's in good hands. Eat up, Tony. A growing boy like you needs to take care of himself."

He flashed a smile. "Don't worry." He jabbed a thumb at Gibbs. "My dad's payin'."

Gibbs' hand popped across the back of his head as they descended to the lobby.

. . . .

Abby burst into D'Amico's, waving and bouncing, just as Tony was digging into a pile of gnocchi swimming in Gorgonzola cream sauce. Anya had called his cell and ordered him to eat a sit-down dinner—Ziva was combative upon awaking and had to be sedated for the CT. It would take longer than they'd expected, so he was to eat, take a long walk, and bring the nurses gelato upon return.

"Tony! Tony-Tony-Tony! We figured it out! Ziva is named for her great-grandmother, Zlata! Zlata means _golden_. They Hebraicized it to Ziva, which means _bright_ or _radiant_. Apparently her mother wanted to go with "Zehava," which also means _golden_, but Eli nixed it."

Gibbs chewed his lasagna thoughtfully. "Imagine my surprise," he drawled. He didn't doubt for a second that Deputy Director David was a psychological abuser, if not a physical one. He was all about head games; denying his wife her preferred name for their baby girl was probably just one of many ways in which he demonstrated his absolute authority.

"So Zlata Dvorak was quite the harpy," Abby carried on, throwing herself into the seat next to Tony. "She was arrested six times for prostitution in less than two years. And Eliezer was in here-and-there with the Jewish mafia. He got hooked up with Louis "The Lump" Pioggi after Kid Twist Zweifach's murder, but Pioggi was killed not long after, and Dvorak was in the wind, only heard from again on a declaration form two years later. I think we can assume he was making enemies among the newer Italian immigrants in New York at the time."

"Anything on him past London?" Gibbs asked.

"He was listed on the birth certificate of a baby boy born in Pressburg in 1921-Aryeh Lev Dvorak. Zlata was his mother, but no other children were documented in the Dvorak family."

Tony gaped at them, mouth full of gnocchi. "What the hell is this—Ziva David History Month?"

"We're trying to figure out how the hell Carvelli got her tail, DiNozzo. Shut up and eat. We're working on this."

He shrugged and dug in, curious. "So a hundred-year-old grudge drove Carvelli to hire DeCroo to beat Ziva to death with a piece of old plumbing? Unreal." He shook his head, disgusted, but shoveled another forkful of pasta into his mouth. "I hate the mob."

. . . .

McGee was talking with Dr. Monroe when they got back to Ziva's room. Ziva herself was asleep, hugging a pillow and receiving oxygen via nasal cannula.

"Heard she had a rough time," Tony said carefully. "Sorry about that. I thought she'd sleep though it."

Dr. Monroe waved a hand dismissively. "She was angry that the guys moved her to the CT table. She hates that sling and thought you didn't know where she was. She punched Adam in the chest, but I can promise he'll make a complete recovery."

Gibbs elbowed Tony in the ribs for apologizing. "What did the scan tell you?"

"Tim and I have decided to switch Ziva from Dilantin to Topamax. We've also discussed how the seizures come at points of high stress—when she's angry or frustrated—and a minute or two of confusion usually precedes them. Hopefully the Topamax will fill in the gaps, so to speak, that Dilantin missed. We're weaning her onto it now."

"How long will that take?"

"Two days. We need to watch for reactions; she's really acclimated to the Dilantin, so switching can make her agitated or more seizure-prone."

Tony ran a finger down the back of Ziva's hand, which sported a small bruise from where the technician inserted the needle for the contrast media. "Is she still sedated?"

Dr. Monroe shifted uncomfortably. "She is. I asked the CT nurse to put her out for the rest of the night. She was up early and busy all day—she needs to _really_ rest."

He nodded. "I understand. I was hoping she'd be awake so she could tell McDoctor and Gibbs about her amazing day."

McGee smiled. "I heard all about it. I bet she was incredible."

Gibbs puffed his chest and cuffed Tony on the shoulder. "Way to man up, DiNozzo."

"Thanks, Boss." He scratched his neck, hesitating. "Um, Ziva was really sad all afternoon. Putting her in that wheelchair set her off and then it was hard to get her back up. Should we increase her antidepressants?"

Dr. Monroe thought, pursing her mouth. "Maybe it's time to get her into therapy. I'll make some calls. And yes, we should definitely increase her SSRI. Did she seem listless or hopeless?"

"Hopeless," Tony agreed, shrugging. "She thinks she's going to be here forever."

"Devorah will help with that. She'll be making an orientation visit to the gym this week. I think that will lift her spirits."

Everyone nodded. Tim smiled. "The rehab center here has implemented a gait-training program that started in Germany a few years ago. It's had some pretty remarkable results, and Ziva is the perfect candidate. Her injury is incomplete, which means she still has movement and sensation below the sternum. I'm sure we'll see improvement all around when she gets moving."

Gibbs nodded, crossing his arms. "Will that be painful?"

"Well," Dr. Monroe began hesitantly. "She might be uncomfortable, but serious pain is not normal and means something is wrong."

"What was wrong, then, when she had that nerve pain?" Tony asked harshly. "Why was she screaming and crying?"

"We don't know, Tony," McGee answered for the doctor. "That hasn't happened since. We can hope that it was a solitary incident."

He wasn't reconciled. "We can only _hope_," he repeated tightly. "Hope. Yeah. I'll be learning to change catheters and do wheelchair transfers while you guys _hope_."

Gibbs shook his head. "Enough, DiNozzo. The attitude isn't getting you anywhere."

He shook his head, too angry to be sheepish. "How the hell am I supposed to go back to work next week? She's still here and pretty much helpless. How can I leave her all day?"

"Work it out," Gibbs said lowly. "Because you won't like it if I have to do it for you."

"Remember that she'll be in rehab for much of that time, Tony," Dr. Monroe cut in. "I have to finish rounds. See you in the morning." She excused herself and left.

Tony lowered himself into the recliner, pausing to brush a hand down Ziva's back. "I can't imagine leaving her alone all day, rehab or not."

"Maybe this means she can work on her independence," Tim posited.

"I'm headed home," Gibbs said, pulling on his jacket. "Go home. Both of you. Get some sleep."

A soft sigh stopped him. "Abba? You leave?"

He turned, back stiff. "No, Ziver. I'm not leaving if you need me to stay."

"Stay," she muttered, drifting again.

"McGee and DiNozzo are leaving. They need to hit the racks if they're going to keep up with you."

She smiled dopily. "Ni…niiii…_night_," she bid them.

They each kissed her cheek and left. Tony walked out backward, promising to come back in the morning. Or earlier, if she needed him.

"Bye," she said pointedly and reached for Gibbs' hand. "You did not...I sit. _Sat_. Walk with Tony.'

"I heard you had a great day. I'm proud, Ziver. Keep it up."

"You…room? For Tony? You say…_said_."

"Yeah, I had my buddy draw up plans. He's sending them to me tomorrow via courier. We'll check them out together when I get them. Sound good?"

"Yes." She yawned. "Hit him."

"Who?"

"Tony. He said…and I hit."

"Why'd ya hit him?"

"He said…we…go…_both_ away but I do not…walk and…and…he will ashamed."

Gibbs didn't quite understand the details but the message was clear; she expected Tony to be ashamed of her. He'd probably tried to woo her with vacation plans and she'd reacted irrationally. "Did you apologize?"

"Yes. But…you said…"

"He deserved an apology for hitting him-that wasn't right. None of us are ashamed of you. We're proud of how far you've come so quickly. You're recovering from a really serious injury, Ziver. No one expects you to miraculously be ok."

"Hm. No shame."

"No shame," he agreed quietly. "You're supposed to be asleep."

"I am not," she explained logically. "My head…"

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes. Lot."

He rang for Anya. "Well let's get you something for that. It probably hurts because you're supposed to be asleep." He gave her a stern look, but she just smiled and closed her eyes.

"What's the trouble, Ziva?" Anya asked kindly. "Why are you awake?"

"Head," she replied without opening her eyes. "Hurts lot."

"I'll get you some Percocet. Need suction?"

"No!"

"Ok, back in a second." She winked at Gibbs and left to retrieve the pharmacy order.

"Abba? I want normal."

"Ok. Make it happen."

"Ok. Stay?"

"Are you going to have nightmares? Tell me now so I don't have to drive all the way home just to turn around and drive all the way back."

"Dunno," she conceded. "I do not like…"

"Me either," he cut off. "What do you have nightmares about?"

Ziva sighed and passed her hand across her eyes. "Saleem. He was…he…" She sniffled, surprised to be crying.

Gibbs bent low and kissed her brow. "It's ok, Ziver. You're safe. I'm here, Tony's here, Tim…Abby. We'll protect you."

Anya returned to administer meds. She pulled Gibbs aside. "I augmented the Percocet with a bit more of the sedative she's somehow managing to fight. It should act as a patch and she'll drop again."

"Thanks," he said quietly, and returned to his chair.

Ziva was already fading out. "Abba? Head…better. Home."

"You throwing me out?"

"_Dunnot stay,_" she slurred. "_Go'me_."

He kissed her again and stood. "Goodnight, my girl," he whispered, and left. He had spindles to turn and sand. Hopefully DiNozzo had already started. Hopefully he'd replace the bottle of bourbon he owed, too.


	17. Free Until They Cut Me Down

**Um, thanks? And sorry? 'Cause it's a little late. You're all wonderful and I don't deserve it.**

****_Pappa, don't tell me what I coulda done._

_She's the one who begged me, "Take me home."_

_-Iron & Wine, "Free Until They Cut Me Down."_

Tony hefted the twelve-pound sledge and grinned; it was demo-day in the new DiNozzo-David homestead and the old kitchen would be in pieces in a rented dumpster by nightfall. Ofek, his contractor, was Israeli-American and a stickler for safety. He handed him a pair of safety glasses.

"Here," he said wryly. "I don't doubt you'll need these."

Tony put them on and swung. The countertop peninsula crashed to the floor. "Ha!" He crowed. "I had no idea it would be that easy."

"Demo's easy," Ofek drawled, chiseling away outdated backsplash tile. "Re-mo is where the tricks come in. Shame we can't salvage this stuff. Most of it is completely rotted through. Tony swung again and the whole upper bank came loose with a crack. He jumped back, startled. "Hey! Careful, brother."

Tony grinned. "Can't help myself. Too excited. I'm pretty pumped to do something nice for my girlfriend. She uh," His smile faltered. "She was paralyzed in a work accident."

"How did she get hurt?"

He shook his head, saddened. "Some guy was gunning for her with a steel pipe. Broke two vertebrae in her neck."

Ofek dragged the sink out to the dumpster without saying anything, then reappeared and put his sunglasses backwards on his neck. "My wife was paralyzed by a building collapse when she was in the IDF. It's how I got into this business."

Tony nodded, swallowing. "Ziva is former Mossad. She's feeling pretty hopeless right now."

Ofek's green eyes narrowed. "There is no such thing as former-Mossad. There is Mossad and then there is _dead-_nothing in between. If she is alive she should be thankful. Take those boxes outside, please."

Tony hauled the old cabinets out, still smiling vaguely. When he returned, the contractor had the blueprints spread out on the remaining counter. "I will need to cut away the floor to tap into the existing plumbing," he muttered. "You will need two sinks. I can run them from the same line. Are you replacing the flooring, or should I conserve what I can?"

"I'm going to run floor-through hardwood. She doesn't need a bunch of transitions to bump over."

Ofek nodded, scratching with a pencil on the plans. "Go choose your flooring and fixtures when we're finished. I'll have my guys tear out the carpet tomorrow morning. Where is your girl?"

Tony shrugged. "Hospital. She's got some stuff going on. They can't move her to rehab yet."

"Stuff?"

"Seizures. They had to switch medications a few times. She's hanging in there, though."

Ofek quirked a smile. "She will hang in until someone cuts her down. Mossad doesn't know how to do anything else."

"Hey, would it be possible for Ziva to meet your wife? She could use an ally, someone who knows what they're talking about."

"I can ask," he said warily. "She has been hurt by people before—people much like her. She's a little shy about becoming a mentor."

Tony tore out the final bank of cabinetry. "I can understand that. If she doesn't want to, that's fine—I wouldn't want to put her on the spot. But they're both Israeli, they're both coping with disability, and they both have handsome men in their lives. Hopefully she'll be willing to find common ground."

Ofek rolled his eyes, grinning. "You Americans and your self-esteem. I'll have to cut yours into sections to get it through the front door."

. . . .

Ziva was eating when Gibbs walked in, blue bowl rocking on its base as she spooned some wettish brown goop into her mouth. She smiled at him and waved. "Hi, Abba."

He sat down with his coffee. "Whatcha got?"

"Kugel," she said between bites. "From Dev. It is very good."

"What the hell's _kugel_, David?"

She thought for a minute, chewing and swallowing. "Um, eggs and noodle. _Noodles_. Sugar. Cinna…spices. It is sweet. It is _good_." She ate another bite happily.

"Maybe you should slow down," he cautioned lowly. "I don't want you to choke."

"No," she replied plainly, mouth still full.

"You turning into DiNozzo on me? Swallow before you talk."

Her smiled deepened and her cheeks went pink. She scraped the final stray noodles out of the bowl and stuffed them in her mouth. Still chewing, she unstrapped the spoon, dropped it into the bowl, and pushed the whole thing away. "Done," she declared.

"How hungry were you?"

"Dunno." She couldn't shrug but it was evident in her voice.

Justine came in to clear away Ziva's dishes and and swab her mouth. "Very nice," she appraised with her penlight. "Scabs are gone. Want to drink a little water?"

"Yes," Ziva answered quickly.

She was furnished with a lidded cup and straw. Justine peeled the front of her neck brace and prodded her throat gently. "Drink," the nurse instructed quietly. "Take a small sip."

Ziva jammed the straw in her mouth and took one tiny, tentative swallow.

"Excellent!" Justine crowed. "You can have liquids by mouth now. We'll start with water and move on in a day or two."

Gibbs kissed her brow. "Nice work, Ziver. You've made so much progress. I heard you're doing a gym visit today?"

"Yes," she said, straw still poised at her mouth. "We will go there." She glanced around. "Where Tony? Where _is_ Tony?"

"At your new house. He's building you a new kitchen. Said he'll stop by later with some samples for you to choose from."

"What?"

"Samples," he repeated, heart sinking. Repeated questions usually indicated an oncoming seizure.

"_For_ what?" She asked pointedly, brown eyes clear.

He sighed silently in relief. "Cabinets and countertops. You get to choose the finish and the granite."

"Good. You have…pans? No. _Plans_? Room for Tony?"

"Yeah, you want to see them?" He unrolled a tube of papers and spread it on the table, using his phone and coffee to hold the edges down. "Here's where the television cable line will go, so the TV can be mounted right on the wall. Tim will help us pick out a good one. We'll run plumbing lines over _here_ so he can have a bar with a sink and soda. I was thinking to have some mirror cut for this corner so he can use it as a mini-gym, put in a weight bench and treadmill. What do you think?"

She smiled. "I think you are a good Abba."

Gibbs laughed aloud at that. "I think you're being a little generous there, Ziver."

Her smile faded. "Dr. Miller cannot…today."

His did, too. "She can't come? Why not?"

"'Mergency," she sighed. "Baltimore."

"Damn. Well, am I allowed to take you for a walk? That will kill some time before Dev comes for you."

She squinted at the buttons on the side rail and jabbed to call the nurse. Justine came right away. "What's up, Ziva?"

"Walk," she demanded. "With Abba. Please."

"Sure. Dev left your chair because she thought you might want to go again. Let's get you set up to go. Any headache?"

"No," she lied. Gibbs caught it, but didn't say anything.

"Ok. Are you dressed to go?"

"Yes." Rita had gotten her up early to put on pants and a clean jog shirt.

"Then let's get your collar back on and your tubes untangled."

When she finished, Justine allowed Gibbs to scoop Ziva to the edge of the bed and hold her while she acclimated to sitting.

She stiffened, fearful and dizzy. "Hold, Abba. Please."

"Hey," he whispered, "I will never let go. You can't fall while I'm around, David."

She took a breath. "Ok."

He turned to the nurse. "Hold her up. She'll want me to move her."

She nodded, understanding, and shifted into position, wrapping one arm around Ziva's waist and another around her shoulders.

"Ok," he said gently. "Arms around my neck." He grabbed her in a bear hug, blocked her feet with his own, and lifted her easily into the waiting wheelchair.

She panted but only for a second. "Ok," she gulped. "I am ok."

He lifted her feet onto the footrests, buckled the safety belt, and tucked a blanket around her legs. "Warm enough?"

"Yes."

"Good. We're going. Thanks, Justine."

He pushed her out of the room, down the hall to the atrium, and parked her in front of a window.

"Bore," she groused. "I want to go another place."

"You gonna get carsick in the elevator?"

"No!" She spat. Her captivity on the seventh floor had turned the elevator into a place of mystery. Where did her friends _go_ when they entered that metal box? Back to the world, no doubt. To their homes and televisions and refrigerators full of bottled water. Except for Gibbs. His fridge contained little but the burned-out bulb and a carton of old hard-boiled eggs. He had no television. His house was safe when there was too much noise outside.

"Ok, we'll go downstairs. Their atrium has a view of the park."

He wheeled her up in front of the sliding doors and asked her to push the call button. She hesitated, right hand poised in midair.

"What, Ziver? You too tired?"

She worried the blanket with her fingertips. "Abba, people will…see."

"So?"

"I…I do not _want_…" Her eyes were wet and she huffed in frustration.

Gibbs knelt beside her. "You think I'm gonna let anyone stare at my toughest agent? They got _me_ to answer to, Ziver."

She graced him with a watery smile. "I know, but…I do not want you…shamed."

"I'm not ashamed of you," he said lowly.

"Ok," she said lightly, but her lower lip trembled and she wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Look at me," he instructed, voice still low. She looked up and a tear coursed down her cheek. "I am not ashamed of you. No one is—not me, not Tony, not anyone. You need to trust me."

"Ok," she said again, tears drying.

"Do you still want to go downstairs?"

"Yes."

"Good. Push the button."

The ride was short and vaguely thrilling before the doors opened and he pushed her onto the sixth floor. It bustled a little more with activity. There was no sad hush, no facelessness, no billowing white curtains. Many patients were sitting up independently, talking with each other or relatives. Most of them wore standard-issue gym clothes instead of gowns. And they were all male, she noted with some trepidation.

"This is where they'll move you when you're ready. You ok with a little more noise?"

She surprised herself by saying _yes_. She wanted more life around her. Her floor was always preparing for someone to die. This one was pushing them to live.

The atrium wasn't empty; two families sat with their injured soldiers, talking quietly. Everyone was hushed but smiling.

Gibbs pushed her up to the window and sat next to her. "Think you can handle it down here?"

"Yes," she said honestly. "I want normal."

He nodded, thinking. "Well, this is the next step. It's not quite normal but it's getting closer."

She clicked her tongue. "How did you know to trans..transfer? Somebody tell...teach you?"

"I had a buddy who got hurt a long time ago. Once he got out of rehab I used to go to his apartment once a week and help him out."

"Oh. What happened?"

"Jeep rollover in Algeria. He had a rough time of it."

She hummed, thinking. "I am ok," she blurted suddenly, gripping his sleeve. "I am ok. _I am ok_."

He stared, surprised. "I know you are, Ziver. If you're not, then you will be."

She took a breath. "I need back. Back to bed. I am get…get_ting_ tired, Abba." Her eyelids drooped and her hands were slack on the blanket.

"Let's go then," he said, standing. "You can take a nap and I'll call my contractor friend. He and I will go in this evening when Tony's here with you."

She smiled, cheeks pink. "I love you, Abba," she said quietly.

He pecked her on the temple. "Love you, too."

Dr. Monroe met them in front of her room. "How was your outing?" She greeted kindly. "Any heroics?"

"Hi," Ziva said happily. "No. My um…_this_ is better." She dragged a fingertip across her throat. "It bleed but now…fine."

"The scabs finally came off? Great. You ate and drank this morning?"

"Yes. I need to back to bed."

"Ok, we'll talk while Abba gets you settled. I want to see how the Topamax is working."

Gibbs parked her next to the bed and set the brake. Ziva pushed the quilt onto the mattress. "It is ok," she reported. "I did not have…" She trailed off, a little embarrassed. "Not yet," she finished sourly.

"Well that's great—let's hope you won't have one at all. Do you need me to help, Gibbs?"

"No," he said bluntly, and bear-hugged Ziva back onto the bed. She held on for a minute, breathing softly in his ear. "It's ok." He sighed. "I gotcha."

She relaxed slowly. "I know. It is _hard_ to move. I try but it is…there is…nothing."

"That will change," the doctor interrupted gently. "The more you do it, the more strength you'll develop. It just takes time."

Ziva yawned and picked at the Velcro around her neck. "Off," she commanded sleepily. "I need to rest."

Gibbs pulled off the collar and helped her position on her side while the doctor checked vitals and medication levels.

"Sleep, my girl," he whispered, stroking her hair. She drifted off quickly, exhausted, and he sat back in a chair. "She's calmer than she has been since she got hurt. Is that the new meds?"

Dr. Monroe spoke carefully. "We went up with the SSRI and we went up with the anticonvulsants and anxiety medication. While I don't like that we're basting her brain with pharmaceuticals, her moods and speech are steadier than ever. I love that she hasn't had a seizure."

"Me, too," he admitted. "She's peaceful. I think she's starting to accept her limitations."

"For now," she snorted. "It's ongoing. She might be calm for a day and then furious for a month. We need to wait and see. Don't be surprised if she wakes up angry or sad."

"We went downstairs. She saw everyone moving and talking and I think something clicked for her. She wants to be down there. I don't know that she gets it, but I think she wants to meet more people like her."

"It's possible and it will be very helpful-isolation is really dangerous. Speaking of, have you worked out a schedule for when everyone goes back to work? It'll be a big adjustment for her."

"Team meeting tonight," he decided quickly. "We'll hash it out. Tony's working on the house now. He's got a contractor in there until six."

"That's fantastic. I'll be back for late rounds. Justine will be by with lunch in an hour or so."

"Where can I get that stuff she was eating the morning? She loved it."

"Talk to Devorah," she smiled. "That kugel is always a hit. I gotta run. See you on late rounds."

He waved and made a mental note for the therapist.

. . . .

Tim shuffled in silently, carrying his laptop and a slim file folder. "Hey, Boss," he whispered, casting a glance at Ziva. "How's it going?"

"Good," he said honestly. "What d'ya got?"

"I did some research. Carvelli's mob connections are pretty thin. He just doesn't have the background to make it into the ranks. Neither does DeCroo."

"You think this was a paid hit?"

He shrugged. "Autopsy came back on Thomas DeCroo. His death was ruled a suicide. Ducky insisted on seeing the body."

"How'd he die?"

"Hung himself with a bedsheet."

"Wasn't on watch?"

"No. He didn't indicate any suicidal ideation."

"Did they interview his cellmate?"

"Yeah. Said he rambled for two days before hanging himself. I don't know that he understood, Boss. I think he was manipulated into hurting Ziva. His IQ was forty-three. He couldn't have masterminded this."

Ziva sighed a soft _oh_ and Gibbs traced her knuckles with his callused fingertip. "Interview Carvelli again. And DeCroo's brother. Put some heat on them."

He nodded. "I got pulled off the case."

"Who?"

"Curtis. His guys are doing the interviews this afternoon."

"Anything else come up on the Dvoraks?"

"Aryeh Lev Dvorak enrolled in a Jewish educational institution—called a _yeshiva_—in 1936. He married a woman named Natalya Hrebinko in 1939, and that was the last appearance of the Dvorak family on record."

"They went to Israel," Gibbs mused, tenting his fingers. "And changed their name to David."

"They changed their first names, too, apparently. There is no Aryeh Lev or Natalya David on any legal document in the Israeli national archive."

"That doesn't answer the question of how they're connected to Carvelli. What did you find?"

"Nothing," Tim admitted shyly. "Nothing on record. There's no "book" with Carvelli's name on it."

"Book?"

"A lot of mobsters kept books of who owed what and how they settled up."

Gibbs shook his head. "They better squeeze him. I want to know why he ruined Ziva's life."

"I wouldn't call it _ruined_, Boss. She can still have a fulfilling life-"

"He took everything from her," he interrupted. "Her identity, her strength, her sense of pride. Everything. She has to rebuild a meaningful life out of the rubble of the old one. That would kill anyone but her, McGee."

He nodded, mute. "I know," he finally admitted.

He wasn't finished. "How would you feel if you couldn't write or speak or do all that computer stuff? How would you feel if you knew you'd never publish another book or catch another criminal?"

"Terrible," Tim admitted quietly. "I wouldn't know what to do with myself." Gibbs just stared at him, jaw set. "That's why I'm trying to stay positive, Boss. I don't want her to think that it's hopeless. Maybe she can come back to work when she's up to it. Work for Tactics or Intel. Maybe even Computer Crimes."

"She ain't coming back, McGee."

"I don't think it's a good idea to make that decision for her."

"I am not letting her return to an organization that let this happen in the first place. She doesn't need that."

"She needs meaningful work. What if she wants that at NCIS?"

"Don't decide that for her."

"You shouldn't either."

Gibbs stared hard at Tim; never had he gone toe-to-toe with him before. He usually backed down, hiding behind his computer and his novels and his jazz music. Now he sat with his shoulders back, blue eyes firm and clear. "This is my area of expertise, Boss. I trust that Ziva is going to gain strength and stamina and purpose."

He sat back, deflated. "She has nightmares."

"She suffered a serious trauma."

"About Saleem Ullman."

"Oh."

"Yeah. And flashbacks. She had one during the first EEG. The tech started sticking those sensors all over her head and she panicked, thinking they were going to start scrambling her brain with a forty-amp truck battery."

"That's awful," Tim said thickly. "Abby showed me her films. She has a lot of old injuries. I would call her high-risk for osteoarthritis."

Gibbs swallowed. "Doc put her on an air mattress. Her shoulders bad?"

"Yeah. Broken collarbones, broken scapula, tendon damage. She might end up with power-assisted wheels in her personal chair."

"I don't want her to be in pain," Gibbs replied roughly. It was a simple desire, but one that indicated to McGee just how much his boss cared for her. For _them_. "And I don't want her high all the time, either. DiNozzo said the morphine made her sick."

"As a dog," he amplified. "I'll work closely with the medical staff to see that she's as comfortable as possible. She's going to have _some_ discomfort, Boss. It can't be helped."

"That's fine. I'm talking about real pain. Deep stuff."

"On it, Boss," he replied softly. "I should get back. I'm sure Abby is looking for me by now. You want another coffee before I go?"

"Yeah. Bring any files for me to look at?"

"Here. Sergeant McNull was killed and there was no evidence. Look into it. Back with your coffee in a minute."

. . . .

DiNozzo crouched and snapped a chalkline that would outline the new kitchen island. He grinned and snapped it again, making sure the blue line was visible on the subfloor.

"Geez, brother," Ofek coughed. "I'll have to lay two floors to cover that mark."

"I don't care. As long as you undercut the sink so Ziva can get to it."

"Yeah, yeah," he groused. "I know what I'm doing."

Ofek's guys had come early, ripped up the old carpet, and delivered boxes of the engineered teak flooring he'd purchased online. Giddiness only grew in Tony's chest. The weeks of inertia had slackened his thinking, softened his hands. While he loved the time he spent with her, the hospital had dulled him. He was happy to dirty his t-shirt with sweat and sawdust.

Jordy, the flooring supervisor, stopped in Tony's line of sight. "You want us to start? We got four hours. I can get the livingroom done."

"Yeah," he said, surprised. "Get anything finished that you can."

"Get out of here, then. Oaf and I got this." He pointed to Ofek, who was sawing and squaring kickboards for under the low cabinets. "And take a shower. You smell like old falafel."

Tony walked through the house before he left, sketching furniture arrangements in his mind, smiling a little at the accessible tub Ofek's guys installed in the master bath. It was jetted—the therapeutic benefits were endless. A purple bikini flashed across his memory and his smile grew. _Therapeutic_ indeed.

. . . .

"What is _that,_ Zi?" Tony failed to not make a face. Whatever it was, it was gross—brownish and goopy.

"Kugel," Gibbs answered for her. "Devorah waters it down and mashes it. It's supposed to be a casserole."

"Shush, Tony," she warned, scooping more onto the spoon. "It is good. I like it."

"Third time she's had it today," Gibbs said wryly.

Tony kissed her cheek. "How was it today? Did you go to the gym?"

"Yes!" She crowed happily. "I will move on…um…dunno, but I will move and then go to the gym. Dev took me."

"You're excited," he noted, smiling.

"Uh huh. You have sams…samps?"

"Samples. Yeah. Let's go two at a time. Tell me which one you like better and we'll narrow it down."

Ziva nodded, accepting the accommodations he was making for her. "Ok. No pink. No black."

"I didn't even bring any. What do you think about these two?"

She chose the lighter of each set, setting finally on white granite with flecks of gold and green.

"Nice, Ziver," Gibbs approved.

She chose cabinet facing quickly and looked up in surprise when the rest of the team filed in. Her heart sank; they all looked so serious.

"Ok?" She asked tentatively.

"Well," Tim began, glancing at the others. "We need to have a meeting. Everyone goes back to work full-time on Monday, so we wanted to make a schedule for you."

"Schedule?" She furrowed her brow.

Tony took her hand. "We know you don't like to be alone, but we have to do our jobs, Zi."

"You have to leave," she said solemnly. "I know." She fought back, but the sadness was suddenly overwhelming.

Tony shifted onto the bed and kissed the hand he held. "It's hard, we know. But we have a plan. Want to hear it?"

She wiped her face. "Ok."

Abby pulled a poster from behind her back. "This is a chart with everyone's names." She shrugged. "Um, I put pictures, too, because I read somewhere that people with your kind of aphasia can have trouble reading. But anyway, we'll put stickers next to each of our names that will tell you who's going to be here and when. So if Gibbs will get you up in the morning, he'll have the morning circle next to his name. If I can come by for lunch, an afternoon circle will be by mine. And there are evening and night stickers. Got it?"

"Yes," she agreed. "What about all?"

It was Abby's turn to be confused. "Huh?"

She swallowed and tried again. "When you all here after work. How…?" She circled a hand in the air. Her face turned red. "I like you all here. It is nice."

Gibbs attached evening stickers to each column. "Unless you hear otherwise, David, you can assume we'll all be here after work." He stopped and made deliberate eye contact with each member of his team. "Everyone."

She flapped a hand acceptingly. "Ok. Everyone."

"And if we're not here, it's because you're in the gym or with Dr. Miller." Tony added quickly. "Ok, sweet cheeks?"

"Yes," she agreed softly, but her eyes grew wet. "Just do not go." Slowly, and with immense effort, she laced one arm around his waist. "Close," she warned him tearfully. "Just close."

He wrapped both arms around her. It was awkward in the bed, and with the feeding tube and IVs between them, but he held her tightly. She let herself fall against him and propped her temple delicately on his shoulder. "Always close," he agreed, and laid a gentle kiss on her lips.

Tim turned red, Abby grinned, and Gibbs motioned them both out with a nod of his head. "We're going to the house, DiNozzo," he barked, but there was tenderness in his words. "Make sure you didn't screw anything up too badly." He paused to kiss Ziva's cheek. "No more tears. Remember what you told me."

"I am ok," she promised. "I am _ok_. I love you. Bye."


	18. God Willing and the Creek Don't Rise

__**Thank you, everyone for everything. The past days have been scattered; if I have failed to send you a personal "thanks" for a review, please pm me immediately and I will regale you with kindness. Love love, the Mecha.**

_At night, some of the boys get to talking up their girls back home._

_ I tell them nones as fine as mine._

_ -Ray LaMontagne, "God Willing & the Creek Don't Rise."_

Gibbs holstered his phone and nearly pressed the button for the seventh floor, but caught himself in time and stabbed _6_ instead. He was tired; their first full day back was commemorated with a dead Marine in Rock Creek Park and a dozen small-time drug dealers who knew nothing. He heaved a sigh when the door slid open, eyes gritty with fatigue.

Rachie, the charge nurse met him at the desk. "Sorry to call you back in, Agent Gibbs. She was doing fine until lights out." She lead him to Ziva's new room—a large and comfortable room on a private corner of the floor—and _snicked _the door open quietly.

He sighed at the sight before him and shook his head. "All hell broke loose, huh? How long?"

"Ten minutes. We want to know if it's ok to sedate her."

"No, it's not," he said sharply. "I'll take care of it. Thanks."

He brushed past her and bent low over the bed. "Ziver," he whispered. "Why are you crying?"

Face wet with tears and mucus, shoulders shaking, teeth chattering, she could only muster another hard sob.

"Hey," he said softly, but there were no reassurances, no tender, fatherly threats, no promises. He put one hand on her arm and buzzed for a nurse.

Anne came quickly, squinting in the dim and smiling gently.

Gibbs shrugged and squared his shoulders. "I need to hold her. Help me get her comfortable."

She nodded and lifted back the quilt to adjust the catheter tube. He sat on the bed—it was low for easy transfers—and gathered Ziva's shoulders, then her hips. She was light in his lap. Anne smiled again, retrieved a coffee, and left it on the nightstand before sliding out for good.

Gibbs jostled her a little, kissed her head where it lay on his shoulder. "How's this, Ziver?"

She sucked in a shuddery breath and sighed, gripping his shirt. He tightened his hold, spread his fingers, put firm, even pressure on as much surface as possible. Slowly—_very_ slowly—she began to calm down. He rocked, muttering nonsense in her ear. Long, quiet minutes passed, broken only by Ziva's hitching and sniffling. His shirt grew damp.

"It's ok," he whispered once he thought she'd hear him. "It's ok. You're fine. Abba's here." She was listening to him, breathing slowly, blinking in the dark. "You tell me when you're ready to talk."

"No," she murmured.

"Ok," he agreed. "Am I staying the night?"

She didn't answer.

"Were you upset the whole day?"

"Yes."

"Even when everyone was here? You were sad?"

She dropped her voice to a whisper, embarrassed. "Yes."

"How come?"

She paused, still with her head on his shoulder. "They come in and…dunno."

"Who comes in? The team? You know them."

"No. The…they come in. I do not know and they touch."

"You don't know the new nurses and it makes you nervous when they touch you."

"Yes. And there are…out…and they say."

"You knew that. You told me last week you were ready to come down here."

"I know," she conceded sadly. "But maybe not. I should back."

"Nope, Ziver. Not how it works." He rocked again and she fell silent, thinking. "Why are you sleeping in your collar? Dr. Monroe said you could take it off while you're in bed."

"It is more. _Better_. It is better. And they do…do not…um. Dunno."

"The nurses make you keep it on?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell them you're allowed to take it off?"

"Trying," she said, tearing up again. He sighed; it seemed this floor needed a lesson in ZivaCare.

"Well I'll talk to them. Want me to take it off now?"

"No. It is more…_Better!_" She tensed angrily.

"Don't get mad," he soothed firmly. "I know what you meant."

"Ok," she sighed, pressing her head harder against his shoulder. "Do not left."

"Sh," he whispered. "You were supposed to be asleep an hour ago."

She rolled his shirt between her index and forefinger, drifting. He shifted, legs aching, and she jumped. "No," she squeaked, half-conscious.

He kissed her temple again. "Not going anywhere. Go to sleep, little warrior."

Ziva closed her eyes obediently and sighed. "…Love you, Abba."

A different nurse woke him two hours later. "Gibbs?" She asked, nudging him gently. "We need to wake her to reposition."

He shifted her back onto the mattress. "Ziver? C'mon. You gotta wake up and turn over. We don't want any more bedsores."

She shot him a glare and flopped her shoulders back, huffing and still half-asleep. The nurse reached for her, but he blocked her with his forearm.

"No," he said softly. "She doesn't know you. Don't touch her until you've introduced yourself."

She raised her hands, baffled. "Agent Gibbs, we're all professionals. We would never touch her inappropriately."

Ire rose in his chest. He tamped it down. "Every touch is inappropriate to her. Leave it to me until she's awake."

"Are you staying the night?" She asked, softening. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

He nodded. "Probably—she doesn't sleep well. And a coffee would be great. Black, no sugar."

"Marine, huh?"

"How'd'ya guess?"

. . . .

Ziva let herself fall back against the table—it was inclined, she didn't have far to go—and succumbed to a very short but intense moment of self-pity. Physical therapy was difficult and discouraging; her weakness made every movement jerky and imprecise, and lactic acid pooled and overflowed at the most inopportune moments. She had yet to hold a seated position for _a second_ without needing Devorah to lever her back up. Tears threatened each time she failed but she'd held back, ashamed.

Dev pulled her back up by the shoulders. "_Yallah_, sabra. You can do this."

She wavered, leaned, and flopped backward again. Her neck and hands protested. "Ow."

"I know," her therapist clucked. "Again." She repeated—pull, steady, release.

Ziva tensed as hard as she could and sat up unassisted for one shining second. She fell back again, smiling this time.

"Ah hah," Devorah said sharply. "I think you may have found your center of gravity. Two seconds this time. Let's go."

She tensed, focused, and stayed up for three. She ignored the cramp that tightened her lower back. "Again?"

"Yep. Four seconds, show-off."

Tension. Focus. Thud.

"Almost five. One more."

The cramp in her back intensified and she gripped the edges of the table, grimacing. "Oh," she squeaked. "Back, Devorah."

She heaved a dramatic sigh. "Again, sabra? Let's take a minute and see if it works itself out. Deep breaths."

Ziva let her eyes wander the gym, focus wavering. There were others there like her—former soldiers injured on duty or in work accidents. Some of them would never see the progress she'd made, others were walking independently and only used a wheelchair for longer distances. They'd all smiled at her but she'd felt shy, intimidated—_powerless_—so she'd only returned the barest of gestures and chose to focus on her workout.

Devorah gathered her hands. "Sabra? You ok?"

Her panic attack the previous night had all of her caregivers on edge. She'd seen it when Tony had come in with the day nurse to get her bathed and dressed, and saw it then in the wrinkle of the PT's brow under her ballcap.

"I am ok," she said softly. "I, um…I can do more now."

"Good. Freddie and I are gonna get you on the floor. I want to work on your legs."

Ziva blanched. "Fine," she sighed, paling. "But only you, Dev."

"That's fine," Devorah agreed, and waited for her to look up. "But you're safe here, sabra. Freddie is not going to hurt you."

"I know." Her dark eyes were troubled and distant. "But I cannot…not yet." She looked away in defeat.

"I understand. I know you're still transitioning, but I'm going to keep saying it until you believe me." She lowered Ziva to the floor as she spoke, pale arms swift and sure.

Freddie softened his posture once she was prone. "We're going to work on hip flexors and quads. It's just resistance work with those big rubber bands, and I won't do anything without telling you first."

She steadied herself and announced, "ready."

Devorah looped a Therband around the top of Ziva's flexed food. "I know you can push, but try pulling. Go."

Heat worked its way down the front of her leg and into her foot. "Dev? It is hot, that. When I pull—hot."

"I felt you pull back, sabra—there's something going on there." She sat back and squinted. "I would like to do a test on your that requires standing. Think we could work on that tomorrow?"

She felt her stomach sour. "I cannot," she stuttered. "I cannot _sit_. How…how _stand_?"

"We've got something to help with that," Freddie interrupted gently. "We've got standing frames and other tools to help you prepare. I don't think you're ready today—you're tired, and a change of venue might not be a great idea after all the hard work you've done today. Let's try it from a fresh start tomorrow."

"Ok. More?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "Definitely. Ready?" He switched legs. "Go."

She pulled and with the traveling heat came a tiny, tiny spark of hope.

. . . .

Tony slammed a folder down on Gibbs' desk. He was furious—veins bulged, face red, eyes narrowed to bare green slits. "It was a paid hit, Boss."

Gibbs looked up at him. "And?"

"Curtis got Carvelli talking. A Mafioso named Leon Pignatoro hired him to take Ziva out. He subcontracted the job to DeCroo, who conned his brother into it. Which couldn't have been hard—the guy had an IQ of 75."

"Where's Pignatoro?"

"Long Island. Nassau County PD is bringing him in. Curtis is sending two of his guys up to interrogate him. He's looking at conspiracy to murder a federal agent. He'll get ten years, and then he'll be right back out and looking for her again."

"Go with them," Gibbs ordered. "Get 'em to trump the charges. Bury him."

Tony's jaw dropped. "I can't leave Ziva. She'll think I abandoned her."

His boss looked at him like he was an idiot. "Then go over there and say goodbye, DiNozzo. Tell her where you're going. You'll be back in a day—two, tops."

"Fine," he grumbled. "But you get to deal with it if she loses her shit."

"I always do," he scoffed, and turned back to his paperwork.

McGee looked up from his monitor. "It's not going to take what you think it is, guys. The FBI is already on him for money laundering, prostitution, fraud, and firearms charges. He's been investigated for throwing college basketball games, hockey games, and lotteries, as well as credit card fraud, insurance fraud, and hits-for-hire."

"Sounds like a charmer," Tony said dryly. "You still want me to go, Boss?"

"Maybe not. Let me talk to Curtis and I'll let you know." He stood and rounded the corner.

"Any news on Ziva?" Tim asked, eyebrows raised. "You said she had a rough night."

"Nothing—she had PT from nine til twelve, then lunch, then speech started at one-thirty. That's a long day for her."

"She might be tired, but the increased activity will build her stamina. I don't think she's the type to stop and ask to take a nap."

Tony wagged his eyebrows. "And I would know, McPlaying Doctor."

. . . .

Dr. Miller traded her picture cards for a different set. "Ok, Ziva. I'd like to test your reading and short-term memory. It may take a few tries to see any real action, but I think you'll make gains pretty easily." She put two cards on the table, one face-up and one face-down, and pointed to the one that was face-up. "What does this one say?"

"Cat," Ziva read flatly, and looked at the doctor with an expression that said _you must be kidding me_.  
>"Good. Flip the other and tell me what it says."<p>

"Car." The same expression followed.

"Now flip them both over and tell me what you read." Dr. Miller made a note in her laptop file.

Ziva turned the cards over and blanked out. "Cat," she mused. "And…um…dunno." She turned them both over and tried again to memorize them, then flipping them with sharp movements. "Cat," she stabbed. "Ca…b. No. Cap." She flipped again, motions angrier than before. "Car!" She blurted. "Cat. Car. Cat. Car." She looked up angrily. "Stop tricking me."

Dr. Miller placed her hands over Ziva's. "You did it—that's great—but I'm not trying to trick you. Let's do it again."

Two more cards came out. "Fish," Ziva read easily. "Flag. Why same…same…lets. Lets? No." She scrubbed at her eyes, furious. "_Letters_."

Dr. Miller squinted at her. "Are you overtired today?"

She huffed, embarrassed. "I did not nap."

"I can tell—you have dark circles and a very short fuse. Let's work for another fifteen minutes and then you can sleep."

"Ok," she agreed easily. "Fish. Frog." She flipped the cards and closed her eyes. "Fish. Frog. Right?"

"Right! Nice work! Keep going."

Ziva worked quickly through the set of cards, hands quick but eyes dull. Her energy waned fast. Finally the doctor cleared them away and pushed the table back against the wall.

"You're going to fall apart if we keep going," she said gently. "But talk to me a bit. How has eating been for you?"

She looked away. "Ok. Hard, but ok."

"Claudia told me you choked at lunch."

Ziva's face reddened. "It was itch. And I could not swell. Swall. Swall-_ow_."

"Itchy? Did they shred the chicken for you, or cut it in small pieces?"

"Dunno," she muttered.

"Strings or cubes?"

"St..rings. Small. But I could not." Her face was hot.

"Protein can be hard to manage, especially with an NG tube still in your throat."

She huffed. "I want out."

Dr. Miller stroked her arm. "I know, but you gotta eat more. You have to eat every bite of every meal before they'll take it out. We can't have you losing more weight."

Ziva blushed again. Her weight had dropped from one-fifteen to one-oh-nine to one-oh-three. Weakness and fatigue followed, though she received plenty of nutrition via the feeding tube and IV. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Are you doing it on purpose?"

"No," she snorted, wearing her _are you kidding me_-face again. "I am not."

"Then don't apologize. Who's coming tonight? Abba?"

"Dunno," she said again, fighting sleep.

"Well I'm calling him to tell him to bring you a cupcake. You worked hard on your first day down here. Feeling ok? Too cold?"

"Owl?" Ziva asked, eyes closed.

The doctor glanced around. "Where'd they put it?"

Ziva struggled to open her eyes. "I dunno. I did not see. Maybe in?" She pointed at a drawer in the nightstand.

Dr. Miller checked the nightstand and narrow armoire. Her puzzles and clothes were in there, but not the owl. "Nope."

Her breath quickened. "Where? Abby put all things…she put them and they came when I moved."

"I'll check with the nurses," she replied quickly. "It has to be around here."

"Ok," Ziva sniffed tearfully. Abby would be terrible disappointed if she'd lost it. The lights were dimmed, and she found it hard to stay awake, even with the nagging anxiety of having lost something important. She berated herself silently—how could she be so lazy and foolish?

Dr. Miller reappeared with Claudia in tow. She held the owl aloft, smiling. "He found his way to the nurses' station."

She snatched it out of her hand, sighing in relief. "Thank you. Sorry."

Claudia smiled. "It's fine. Might've gotten dropped somewhere. Sleep tight."

Ziva just yawned and blinked at the blue feathers in her hand.

. . . .

Tony followed Ziva's dinner-tray delivery boy into her room. She was asleep, curled on her side and still wearing her collar.

"Hey," he whispered in her ear. "Time to eat, sweet cheeks."

She blinked awake. "Hi," she said softly. "Already?"

"It's two minutes after six," he replied kindly. "Claudia said you had a long enough nap."

"I was tired," she agreed, and elevated the head of the bed. He helped her turn over and pulled the table close.

She picked up her fork and tightened the strap across her knuckles. It wasn't totally necessary, but she preferred to not spill her steamed carrots and flavorless shredded chicken.

"I have to eat all," she told him mournfully. "I want this out." She swiped at the NG tube taped to her cheek.

"Me, too," he agreed. "So dig in. Everyone else is running late."

She paused, fork in her mouth. "Um…do they want…? Maybe are bore. _Bored_."

"No one is bored with you. How else are we going to find out what you did all day?"

She stabbed a coin of carrot. "Devorah."

"And she'll tell us to see you. C 'mon, Zi. We want to be here. We want to watch you progress. Cause we know you can."

"I know," she sighed. She stared down at the small serving of shredded meat. "I did not do it…lunch. The meat is…it itch."

"You couldn't swallow it?" He blinked at her for a second, then lifted a finger. "Wait for everyone else before you eat that. I have an idea." He fired off a quick text message, then turned back to find her fork still poised in the air. "I didn't mean give up—eat your carrots and drink your water."

She stabbed another carrot and stuck it in her mouth with a flourish. Everything was bland and carried the same flavor as the plastic bowl it was served in.

Gibbs appeared, then Tim, both of them carrying white takeout bags of burgers and fries. Tony rooted in the bag and produced a small white packet. He tore it and squirted the contents—ketchup—all over Ziva's shredded chicken.

"Try that," he coached. "It won't be so dry. Why do they think you want to eat poultry-flavored sawdust?"

Ziva took a tiny bite. "I did it," she said firmly. Her gaze softened. "Thank you, Tony."

"Welcome," he said around a mouthful of double-bacon cheeseburger. It smelled rich and fattening, and Ziva stuffed more carrots in her mouth, jealous.

"Want a fry?" He asked, holding one out to her.

She pinched it from him and mouthed it delicately, moaning. "That is very good," she praised quietly.

"It's too rich," Tim said quickly. "You can have one or two, but your stomach is not ready to handle that much oil. Give her one more, Tony."

He chose the fattest one in the bag and handed it over. She munched on it, eyes closed in pleasure.

Abby skidded in, green eyes wide. "Hi, guys! Hi, Zivvie! How was your day?"

She mulled it over, chewing more chicken. "It was ok. I read."

"That's great. How was your focus?"

She blushed. "I was tired. I did not do...best."

"I'm sure you did," Abby replied quickly. "You have to be a little nicer to yourself, Zivvie."

Ziva and Gibbs exchanged brief glances. He nodded, chewing.

"I am ashamed," she said clearly. "I was very big and now I am not."

"Strong," Gibbs corrected quietly. "You were strong. You have never been _big_ in your life."

"Shush," she scowled. "You know I mean."

Abby was puzzled. "I know you were very strong. You're still strong. You just have to use it a different way."

She paused to think, then ate her last bites without saying another word. She unstrapped the fork and dropped it to the table wordlessly.

Tim frowned at her. "Ziva? Abby didn't mean to make you angry."

"I am not," she retorted. "I am think. _Thinking_." Her eyes welled and she blew out a frustrated breath. "I am _stupid_," she said softly. "I cannot _say_."

Abby rushed over, plopped down on the edge of the bed, and pulled her into a tight hug. "You are _not _stupid. You are very smart and very, very brave. I love you a lot."

"I am ashamed," Ziva cried quietly.

"I know," Abby replied motherly. "And it sucks. But you won't be for long. You have overcome so much—and I don't just mean this. I mean everything-your childhood couldn't have been easy, and then serving in the IDF, Mossad, NCIS, Somalia, Jerkberg Ray…everything, Ziva. You are such a badass. And a beautiful one."

She cried harder, shoulders shaking. Abby shushed her and cuddled tighter.

"Tight, Abby." Gibbs said lowly. "And spread the pressure as much as you can."

Abby tightened her grip on Ziva and smoothed her hair back.

Tim tossed his wrappers in the trashcan. "She's having some sensory integration issues?"

"She's not handling the move very well," he shrugged.

Tony also finished and tossed his trash. "She was a little antsy this morning. She usually loves a good bath, but she kept telling us to hurry up."

"Sounds like sensory processing disintegration," Tim mused. "I'll talk to Dr. Monroe. Any complaints of pain?"

"No," Gibbs and Tony chorused. "And no seizures, either," Tony added.

Ziva was settling, tantrum reduced to sniffling and the occasional shudder. Abby still hung on tight, making small noises of comfort. "You're ok," she mumbled. "We're here."

Tony brushed a hand down Abby's arm. "Mind if we trade?"

Ziva leaned back. "I am ok," she sniffed. "I just…just…dunno." She wiped her eyes.

"You are dealing with more than we can understand," He said quietly. "Any of us. It's ok if you break down once in a while."

"Try to communicate with us," Gibbs agreed. "Tell us when it's too much."

Her eyes darted around the room. "Not you!" She said quickly. "Not too much, you. Just…else."

"Well, yeah, Ziver." Gibbs shrugged. "You gotta tell us when it's too much so we can fix it."

She gave him a flat look and grabbed for Tony's shirt. "Light" she said simply.

Tim dimmed them. "Better?"

"Yes," she sighed, and a tiny smile graced her lips.

"Definite sensory issues," he muttered to Gibbs, who just nodded in a way that meant he was to shut the hell up.

"Tomorrow I will stand," Ziva said suddenly. "Devorah said. She wants to go a test…_do_ a test, and I will stand up. With help. Because I cannot."

"That's great," Tony said happily. "I'm sure you'd like to be eye level with the world again.

"Yes," she agreed. "I hope is…nice."

"Load-bearing exercise is important," McGee informed everyone. "It'll help you manage your reflexes a little better, and can help prevent skin breakdown and osteoporosis."

She frowned at him. "I know, Tim. Dev said. I will tomorrow. Cannot I just…happy?"

He stuttered, flushing red. Tony wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Of course you're allowed to be happy," he said, and kissed her temple. "You're allowed to feel however you feel."

"Thank you," she said bluntly, and yawned. "I am so _tired_," she complained.

"It was your first real day of rehab," Abby offered, dragging the quilt higher. "You should be exhausted."

Gibbs didn't mention her prior late night and poor sleep. "It's almost eight. Hunker down, Ziver. I'll put on the news."

She shifted lower and Tony helped her roll into a comfortable position. He propped her with cushions and tucked the owl against the bedrails.

"Cozy?"

"Yes," she hummed, eyes slipping again.

"Good."

Tim and Abby bid their goodnights and left, arms tucked around each other. Gibbs flipped on the television and lowered the volume until it was barely audible.

Ziva tensed. "No, Abba. Too loud."

Tony nuzzled her cheek. "Is everything too loud, Zi?"

"Yes," she mumbled into the pillow.

"Too loud and too bright," Gibbs thought out loud. "Let's talk to Dr. Monroe."

"Shoulda kept McFeelie around," Tony agreed.

Gibbs stood. "Help me tuck her in tight. It might help." He shifted to the side of the bed and pulled the sheets snug, tucking the edges under the mattress. Tony tucked in his side and smoothed Ziva's hair away from her face.

"It is _better_," she muttered softly. "That is nice." She sighed, drifting.

Both Gibbs and Tony placed tender kisses on her cheek and brow and slipped out the door, asking Rachie to call if there were any changes.

She gave Gibbs and up-down look and smirked. "You are one smitten Papa, aren't you?"

He smirked back. "Just call, ok?"


	19. Girl

**Hi, everyone! I know I owe you all so many thanks for the reading and comments and love, but I figured you'd prefer another chapter over a bunch of little notes. So here you go. And thanks. Cause it's all love.**

****_She's been everybody else's girl._

_Maybe one day she'll be her own._

_-Tori Amos, "Girl."_

Devorah stood Ziva to her full height with the pull of one long lever and she gasped, brown eyes wide. She hadn't been more than waist-high in weeks and the shock of seeing her therapist eye-to-eye was almost too much. Almost, but not quite.

"How ya doing, Ziv?" Devorah thundered, smiling. "Comfortable?"

She grinned. "Yes. I feel big." The stander _was_ comfortable; she was supported safely, but not so much that she felt restrained.

"Want to eat lunch up here?"

"Yes. And speech." She would stand all day if she could.

Devorah adjusted the straps behind Ziva's knees and checked her pulse. "You're good," she announced, laying her hand back on the tray. "How long can you stay? Tell me when it's time to come down."

"Ok," she agreed quickly. Her smile only grew when Tony came through the gym doors, clad in running clothes and carrying a bottle of water.

He kissed her mouth. "Hey, sweet cheeks. You look beautiful."

She blushed. "I am happy see you."

"I got booted off a case," he said vaguely. "So I took the afternoon off so I could be with you. We've been so family-oriented since you transferred downstairs; no time for just us."

"Ahem," Devorah interrupted. "Ziva is working. Either you help or you skidoo, Casanova."

He gave her his most charming smile. "What can I do?"

"Hang here while she's up and tell me when she needs to come down."

His smile didn't fade. "Sounds easy." He tilted his head down to touch Ziva's. "Gibbs said he didn't get a phone call last night."

"I was ok," she said easily. "I sleep…slep. _Slept_. I was tired."

"You fell asleep at eight."

"It is hard," she confirmed, and tightened her hands on the edge of the tray.

Devorah put a hunk of pink modeling clay in front of her. "Work on that, sabra. May as well employ your fine motor skills while you're just standing around."

Ziva pulled a face. "Ack, Dev. I do not like."

Dev studied her for a long moment but said nothing.

Tony took her hands and plunged them both into the dough. "C'mon, sweet cheeks. Toughen up."

She blushed. "I do not like, but I will."

"That's my girl."

She tried to roll the clay into a fat snake, glowering when she couldn't wield hard enough pressure to shape it. "Ugh," she grunted. "I can_not_."

"Push, Zi," Tony coached.

She dug in harder, willing her hands to obey.

"Push. _Pushpushpush_." Tony coaxed, and the blob eventually lengthened into a pink jellyroll. He ducked down into her line of sight. "See? I told you."

She blushed. "I will do it myself."

He rubbed noses with her. "I don't mind helping."

She gave him a sharp look. "For now."

Devorah smashed their worm into a blob again. "Make me a mountain. Kilimanjaro. Fuji. Rainier. I want to see a tall cone. Bonus points for snow. Double for a yeti."

Ziva gave a short giggle. "Ok. Here, Tony."

"No way," he scoffed. "You have to help. Make the summit and I'll work on an abominable snowman."

She twisted the center of the blob and pulled until her fingers cramped. She shook out the pain and started again, the tip of her tongue protruding in concentration.

"Done," she announced after five long minutes. A formidable facsimile of Mount Hood stood on the tray in front of her.

"Hey, why didn't you tell me?" Tony whined. "I would've made a Timberline Lodge instead of a…whatever this is." He held out an unidentifiable daub. "That's where they filmed parts of _The Shining_. Kubrick pioneered the Steadi-Cam on those rough-hewn floors."

Ziva smiled and rolled her eyes, lacking the patience for film class. "Ok," she agreed happily. "Dev? See?"

"Nice work, sabra. How you doing? Ok still?"

"I am ok," she grinned. "I like up."

"I remember you saying that before," she complained. "Any dizziness?"

"Small," she admitted. "But I do not want down. Not yet."

Devorah swiped the dough away and handed Tony a stack of cups. "Build a tower then take it down. See how fast you can do it."

Tony demonstrated first, constructing a castle in only a few seconds. "Take it down," he smiled. "See if you can do it without any of them falling."

It required quick, precise motions—the kind Ziva struggled with. She took even breaths to steady her hands, but the cups fell, anyway and she huffed, embarrassed. "Oy."

He picked them up for her. "Don't worry about it," he whispered.

She smiled her gratitude and tried again, calming her nerves with what Tony may have called _ninja senses_ a month ago. The tower came down and not one cup slid from the tray. She beamed at him, victorious.

"Brava," he said proudly. "You are something special."

She blushed and reached forward for a kiss. "I love you," she muttered quietly.

"Love you too."

He would've kissed her again but Devorah cleared her throat. "You lovebirds gonna build those stacks or what?"

Tony laughed, Ziva blushed and smiled. They build the stack and tore it down, built it and tore it down, and were about to begin a third round when her hands jerked and she looked up at him, eyes wild.

"Down," she ordered desperately. "Down now. Please."

Freddie and Devorah lowered her onto the floormats in a quiet corner.

"What happened?" Dev demanded. "Tell me how you feel."

"Bad," Ziva complained, face contorting. "My head. My back. My legs are bugs. _Bad_ bugs. Ugh, Tony?"

"I'm right here," he said quickly, diving onto the mats next to her. "What do you need me to do?"

Freddie reached for her tightening calves but pulled his hands away. "Massage her legs. Soften the muscles and check for any sores or bruises. She might be mismanaging some pain response."

Tony rolled her pant legs over her knees and kneaded her muscles, murmuring quiet reassurances. Her calves relaxed but the spasm continued.

Ziva grit her teeth, eyes rolling. "I feel bad," she said weakly. "I feel very bad."

"I know," he soothed ineffectively. "I'm sorry." He abandoned his massage and lay down next to her, drawing her head against his shoulder; the cervical collar kept him from cuddling her properly. "How's your head?"

"Hurts," she rasped, eyes closed.

"What kind of hurt? The stabby kind? The achy kind? What about that weird hot pain you get after too many rounds at the range with Gibbs. Is it like that?"

She floundered for a moment. "It is big and loud. Like…like Abba working…boat."

He guffawed. "That's the most appropriate comparison I've ever heard. Do you want something to take the pain away?"

"Um, dunno. Wait with me."

"Copy, David," he said softly.

They waited on the mat for an hour, dozing a little, talking some, and waiting for the pain to recede.

Finally Ziva put a hand on his chest and said, "Ok, Tony. I am ok."

He sat up and brought her with him. "Let's go back to it, then. Hey Dev? She's doing better."

"Great," she cheered, teasing the brim of her cap. "Let's stretch her out again and do some floor exercises. Ziv? You ready?"

"Small," she cautioned. "Just small. But yes, ready."

Devorah agreed with a shrug. "We'll go easy. I like how you're working through the pain. Very tough."

Tony helped her into a long sit. "You have no idea, Dev. _No_ idea."

. . . .

Gibbs' phone buzzed and he answered it with a snarl. "Yeah, Gibbs."

Curtis was on the other end, chewing a piece of pretzel as he spoke. "We're bringing Pignatoro down on conspiracy and stalking. Local LEOs got him on a dozen other charges."

His gut ceased its rolling momentarily. "I got Sciuto in forensics all over this—she's been up to her ass in alligators for weeks. My guys will sleep a lot better if they get the chance to roll him."

Curtis snorted. "What the hell, Gibbs? You guys got pulled off this one two weeks ago."

"Do you have any idea what he did to her?" He bellowed. "My team is busting hump twenty-four hours a day because of that thug. They need closure."

Curtis was unperturbed by Gibbs' outburst. "Which they'll get when he's sentenced on all charges. _My_ team knows what they're doing. We'll make it work."

Gibbs blew out an angry breath. "We're the ones who dug out some connection between these guys and Agent David. At least keep Abby in the loop."

He could hear Curtis smiling on the other end. "And, by default, keep _you_ in the loop. Fine. But don't expect me to let DiNozzo at him in Interrogation."

Gibbs kicked back. "He's out for now."

"What did he do?"

"Threw a chair at a kidnapping suspect. Earned himself a week with pay and a free psych eval."

"Damn," Curtis mused. "He needs to check himself."

"Yeah, well he can do that on his own time. Now I'm down two agents. Vance is bringing in temps."

"I'm bringing in mobsters," he jested roughly. "We'll see you after five."

"No you won't," Gibbs warned. "I'm out by then. I got an agent in the hospital."

Curtis barked a laugh. "You got a _kid_ in the hospital. Give her our best."

Gibbs hung up and swung his chair around. "McGee," he demanded.

He looked up, startled as usual. "Yeah, Boss?"

"You'd better be digging for info on Pignatoro."

"I am. I'm running searches and cross-checking with what we already have. They bringing him in?"

"They're gonna bury him. They _better_ bury him. Or I'll do it myself with a shovel and a tarp."

"I know," Tim said quietly. "Tony sent me a text about an hour ago. Ziva is having a great day. Said she's pretty happy."

"Does that sound like 'sensory issues' to you, McGee?"

"They're common with traumatic brain injuries," he explained casually. "She's working really hard to reorganize input and output. It makes sense that she'd have trouble with visual or auditory processing."

Abby buzzed them both on speakerphone. "Hey, you two. Down here. Now."

They found her pacing and muttering in front of the plasma.

"What d'ya got?" Gibbs asked hopefully.

"A bunch of…_crap_. That's what it is—crap. Absolute garbage. Pignatoro put that hit out on Ziva because her great-grandfather may have—I repeat: _may have_—had his great-grandfather killed when his great-grandmother was pregnant with their first son—who would've been Pignatoro's grandfather, of course. Apparently _Leon_ is a family name. It wasn't terribly difficult to figure it out—the Yiddish Black Hand went after Pignatoro on some thrown horse-races at Goshen Racetrack. Dvorak probably killed him in an alley between Rivington and Essex on the Lower East Side." She sucked in a breath, furious. "That is _bullshit_," she spat, reeling on them. "It's absolute bullshit. Why the _hell_ would he want to rekindle some old rivalry that's worth nothing but the paper it's printed on? Ziva's a member of one of the most powerful families _in the world_ and this guy nails her for a hundred bucks and bragging rights?"

Gibbs put his hands on her shoulders. "That's great work, Abbs, but it's probably more than that."

"I hope it isn't," she sneered. "I hope it's just this stupid, ridiculous _bullshit_ and we'll call him at his own game. How long can he spend in jail for this?"

McGee stepped in. "I think a better question is ' who is he working with?' He could have his guys go after her once he's serving time."

Gibbs crossed his arms. "Won't happen."

Abby poked him in the bicep. "Better not," she muttered. "Agent Curtis called for the forensics. So did JAG."

Tim rocked, staring at Ziva's x-rays on the lightboard. "Call her father."

Gibbs nearly choked him for saying it. "Are you kidding me?"

"Call him," he said evenly. "This is his fight. Let him step to the plate for his daughter. For once."

"You want to do that, McGee? Get him in MTAC." He kissed Abby's cheek. "Proud of you. We're on for dinner still, right?"

She smiled. "As long as Zivvie doesn't need you."

He spun for the elevator, pointed at Tim over his shoulder. "She won't. I'll pick you up at 5."

"Where are you going?" She demanded.

"Vance's office. We need a plan if we're going to ambush Director David."

. . . .

The room was dark enough that McGee had to squint to make out Ziva in the bed—legs elevated and arms splayed—and Tony in the chair next to her. His suspicions of sensory overload were confirming themselves.

"Hi," he whispered. He cocked his head. "She asleep?"

"No," Tony whispered back. "But she will be soon. They had to load her up with meds about twenty minutes ago. She did great in PT, but we came back after speech and she started freakin' out because her legs hurt. She was shrieking, McGee, _shrieking_. We're talking horror-movie screams; Jamie Lee, Shelley Duvall...It hurt to watch. It took a long time to get her comfortable. We couldn't figure out to get her legs up."

Tim smoothed the wrinkles from the quil.t "Did she have any neurological activity?"

"A little. Her eyes got all fluttery like right before she has a seizure but she didn't actually have one. Claudia thinks the Topamax is a really good fit for her."

Silence fell. Ziva's breath hitched and they both froze. Tony's finger was poised on the call button, but she settled back down, humming softly in discomfort.

"What did they give her?" McGee asked gently. "Any more opiods?"

"No, something called Neurontin. They can only give her a little because it can damage her kidneys."

"Since she's still catheterized, yes. Any word on an elimination program for her?"

Tony shook his head. "She's still not stable enough. Food is a higher priority."

McGee nodded. "Watch for UTIs."

He jumped up. "Think she has one now?"

He puzzled. "Not if she doesn't have a fever or high blood pressure."

He checked the monitors; Ziva had been hooked up again when she was returned to bed. Her temperature and blood pressure were a little high, but not so much that he was worried."

Dr. Monroe knocked and stepped in. "Uh oh," she said softly. "This day took a nose-dive, didn't it?"

"Yeah," Tony replied, standing. "She was killing it this morning, but then she had some crazy pain and we couldn't get her comfortable. The nurse jacked up her drugs for the evening."

"I can see why? She's complaining of leg pain?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wouldn't call it _complaining _as much as _crying and screaming_. Elevation and some nerve meds were the only things that made it stop."

"Two steps forward and one back," she nodded. "She's tolerating the Topamax, but Claudia and Anne are concerned about her mental health. She's been having some pretty serious low points since the transition. I called all the counselors on the unit but they're booked solid for two weeks. I took the first open slot for her. Remember, the SSRI still isn't fully in her system. Expect another week to pass before it takes effect."

Tony sighed. "Seriously? She has to be like this for another week?"

"I know it's hard. I'm sorry. But as hard as it is to watch, you should know that she's not in any real danger. The staff is more than capable of taking care of her."

"I know. I just kinda feel like they don't pay as much attention as they should."

Dr. Monroe smiled a little. "Ziva's accustomed to a little more doting. Down here, they expect a little more independence. It'll take time, but she'll adjust. This is where recovery gets really hard, Tony. Bonds are tested, families are strained. It's a rollercoaster—and _not_ the fun kind—for everyone involved. She's angry and in pain, you're all exhausted and trying to cope, and something has got to give."

"Hence the threats at sedation. Why are they trying to knock her out every time she loses it?"

McGee saw his opportunity. "Ziva has some sensory issues—sleep can help when she's overwhelmed. It's just difficult to balance when to sedate her and when to let her deal on her own."

The doctor took notes. "Tell me about that, Tim."

"It's textbook—bright lights, loud noises, touch. She wouldn't let the nurses handle her without a family member present—if at all—and didn't you say she wasn't tolerating her bath a few days ago? That is a change; she normally likes them."

She nodded, taking notes, thinking. "I'm going to call Freddie and be right back in tomorrow morning. Does a bear hug help when she's upset?"

"Definitely," Tim agreed. "Gibbs and Abby have both used that method to increase her proprioception and self-control."

"One follows the other," she noted. "Do you think her sensory issues are a hindrance to her progress?"

"Absolutely. If she could manage her sense of locomotion and vestibular system then she would probably see an increased success rate of thirty to forty percent in strength and stability. Tony, is she dizzy?"

"All the time," he confirmed. "Worse if it's bright."

Dr. Monroe closed her tablet computer. "She needs a snug shirt and sunglasses. Any other questions?"

"What do we do about nerve pain?"

"We can only manage it with medication and positioning until she's seizure-free for six weeks. After that, we can try electrostimulation. Don't worry—it's not like the nerve function tests. It's a painless treatment."

Tony scoffed. "So you say."

She gave his arm a gentle rub. "I know, it's really hard. But she's improving, even though you feel like she's going backwards right now. You should go shopping for her tonight—I'll need a nice tight shirt for her in the morning. Goodnight, guys. Take care."

She stepped out, and Tony blew out a hard breath. "More shopping for clothes they're going to cut her out of."

"Shut up," Tim sad kindly. "You're lucky she can tolerate clothes at all. I'll stay. Go back to that yoga store near her condo."

"She loves their stuff," he nodded, and pocketed his wallet and phone. "Call me if she wakes up."

Ziva did wake; she groaned softly and rubbed her eyes. "Tony?" She called softly.

Tim slid forward in his chair. "No, Ziva. Tony had to go shopping for you. He should be back in an hour. Maybe less."

Even in the dark, he could see her eyes widen and the corners of her mouth fall. He straightened up, flexed his hands, and prepared for a tantrum. He got none.

"Oh," she said just as softly. "Why?"

"You need some new shirts."

"Abby gets them," she informed him. "By…by…home."

"That's where Tony went," he said quickly, not wanting to explain that she'd never go back to her home again. "He'll get something you like. I'm sure of it."

She tried to get her elbows beneath her. "You help, Tim? I need to over."

"Are your legs ok? Should I lower them?"

"Um," she hemmed. "Small?" He pressed the button and held it until she sighed. "Ok. Thank you."

"Sure." He paused for a moment, listening. A cart rattled by. Two airmen laughed over a game of Crazy Eights. The phone rang at the nurses station. Satisfied that no one was coming in to stop him, he reached into his pocket. "Can I turn on a light if it's low?" He asked suddenly.

"Ok. Low."

Tim turned on a small lamp in the farthest corner of the room. "How's this?"

She blinked. "Ok."

"Here," he said awkwardly. "I know you don't like the safe diet, but I figured these were pretty safe, so…would you like them?" He held out a small package of Israeli snack puffs.

Ziva's face lit up, her cupids-bow mouth forming a round _o_ of surprise. "I can? It is ok?"

"Yeah, it should be fine." He opened the bag and held it out.

She crunched happily. "I like that," she announced. "It is like…like…when small."

"You ate these a lot as a kid?"

She smiled and reached for another. "Yes. Tali like…_liked_ them. Papa would give…give to her."

"I bet you were a great sister."

"I was," she said confidently. "And I miss. But that was _ago_." She crunched another _bamba_.

"It was. But it can take a long time to process grief, especially if someone died unexpectedly."

She looked at him sharply. "It was not…un…unep…that. We knew that never safe."

"You're safe now," he guaranteed.

"No," she said simply. "Never." She crunched through another and offered him a thin smile. "This is very good. Thank you, Tim."

. . . .

Director David folded his hands. "You are _positive_, Agent Gibbs—_positive_—that this Pignatoro had my daughter nearly killed?"

"Serious as a heart attack, Director. We had him in custody, but we need to make sure he's not working with anyone. We want the threat against Ziva neutralized."

Eli nodded to one of his men. "You cannot do this on your own, Gibbs? You've moved the heavens and the earth to make sure she is well cared for, but you cannot keep her safe from a small-town crook?"

"It's not that we can't, Eli, it's that you're able to work much faster than we are."

"Because my people operate beyond the boundaries of your piss-poor criminal justice system. Pignatoro and whomever he may be working with are no longer a problem. How is my daughter?"

Gibbs' stance softened. "She's doing as well as can be expected, Eli."

They studied each other for a moment—two fathers contemplated a child that both and neither could claim.

"I am taking good care of her," Gibbs promised. "We all are."

"You used the funds I sent?"

"They're set aside for her."

"Good. Please give her my warmest regards."

Gibbs' grew angry. "You can't do that yourself, Eli?"

"No," he said quietly. "I cannot. I will do as you ask, Agent Gibbs. Thank you for arresting Pignatoro. Goodnight."

. . . .

Tony woke Ziva with a kiss to the cheek. "Good morning, Zee-vah. Sleep good?" He brushed crumbs from around her mouth. "You and McScooby-Snack had a fun evening, didn't you?"

"Yes," she agreed, yawning.

Dr. Monroe slipped in with Claudia, both smiling. "Two good nights in a row, Ziva. That's something to be proud of."

Ziva poked the button to sit up. "Early," she grumped, pulling the quilt. "And cold."

"Well, we might have something to help with that. I heard you're having some trouble with sights and sounds. Can you tell me more?"

"I am not," she complained, but threw a hand over her eyes.

She, Claudia, and Tony exchanged eye rolls.

"I want to try something," Dr. Monroe explained gently. "I have a vest for you—it's special. It might help you feel a little more centered."

"I will try," Ziva sighed, irritated. "But no touching else. Just that."

"We'll put on a different shirt and then your vest over top."

"No bath," she warned Claudia and Tony. "I am cold and it is too much."

"We can skip a day," the nurse agreed. "But tomorrow you will have one—hair washed and everything."

Ziva was tired of negotiating. "Fine. Tony? You help."

He traded her lose running top for a tighter one with long sleeves, then the doctor and nurse fitted a snug neoprene vest over it.

"How's that?" Dr. Monroe asked, adjusting the final shoulder strap. "Do you feel any better?"

Ziva's brow furrowed. "Dunno. I am not cold."

Claudia smiled. "That's a start. You feel up to eating?"

"Because I have to," she bit back.

"I want you to wear this today, Ziva," the doctor said casually, ignoring her griping tone. "I want to see if it helps your focus and integration. Do you know what I mean?"

She didn't, but she didn't really care, either. "Fine," she agreed smartly. "But I want a day."

"She wants to stay on schedule," Tony translated. "She wants to go to PT and speech."

Dr. Monroe held out her hands. "That's great. I wasn't expecting much for today—the past few days have been rough."

"I want to go. I want to stand again. I am big."

"Strong," Tony corrected.

She punched him in the chest. "Shush."

Dr. Monroe signaled _five minutes_ and stepped into the hallway.

Tony kissed her hand. "You still feeling antsy?"

"Dunno. Maybe. Not like before. It's quiet-small."

He grinned. "What does that mean, Zee-vah?"

She scowled, hurt. "Dunno, Tony. I cannot…"

He apologized, kissing her cheek. "I didn't mean it that way, Zi. I should've said it differently."

Gibbs whacked the back of his head. "Yeah, you should've. Morning, Ziver. Didn't get to see you awake yesterday." He kissed her cheek, calmer than he had been the night before. He'd come by after Tim and Tony were gone and sat with her for an hour, listening to the sound of her breathing mingle with the hospital's white noise. It was calming for him, and necessary after the terse exchange with Eli.

Dr. Monroe stuck her head in as breakfast was being delivered. "Everything ok?"

"Fine," Ziva dismissed, making a face at her sugarless oatmeal and applesauce.

"Is the vest helping?"

"I am not cold," she sniped between bites.

"Are you any less irritable or restless?"

Ziva grew thoughtful and a tiny shadow of remose passed over her face. "Hm. Small."

"We'll leave it on until Devorah comes to get you."

"Fine," Ziva agreed, and ate another bite. "Done. See? Now you can take out."

Dr. Monroe's smile faded. "I'm sorry, but no. You need to eat all your meals today, and then we'll weigh you tomorrow morning to see if it can come out. I know it's hard but—"

"Patient," she agreed again. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, eyelashes wet. She opened them again when she felt everyone shift uncomfortably.

"I am ok," she told them quietly. "I am ok. It is hard, but I am ok. And sorry."

Dr. Monroe patted her hand. "You're doing great."

Tony sat on the bed next to her, balancing so she didn't topple over. "I know you are. Yeah, it's hard, but you're so tough."

"I am big," she smirked, and looked meaningfully at all three of them.

Gibbs smiled, gathered his coffee cup, and looped one lose arm around her shoulders.

"You're big, all right," he said into her hair. "I need to work, and Casanova has a meeting at eleven. He'll take you to Devorah, but you're on your own after that. Can you do it?"

"I can," she whispered, and kissed his waiting cheek. "I am big."

His laughter rang the whole way to the elevator.


	20. This Woman's Work

__**Whoa, how long has it been? Yeah, this real-life thing is bogus. I'll be returning to Hermitville post-haste. I love you all. Sorry to keep you waiting!**

_Now starts the craft of the father._

_ -Kate Bush, "This Woman's Work."_

Ziva was only a minute into her standing regimen when Dr. Miller came in, lugging her heavy bag of supplies. She was already smiling.

"Hello—wow," she gushed. "I can't believe you're standing. How are you feeling up there?"

"Hi. I am ok. I am…small dizzy." She smiled and waved a hand in the closed approximation of a shrug she could find. "It is not easy but that is ok."

"I heard you slept three nights in a row."

Ziva pushed her shoulders back. "I did. It was ok. I was…up and then I um…Abba and then I sleep—_slept_—again."

Dr. Miller smiled hello at Devorah and rooted in her bag. "Abba, huh?" She said absently. "Did he come?"

"No, I phoned him."

"You called him on the phone? That's a big step. How was talking to him?"

Ziva blushed. "Anne helped. It was hard. I could not…but he was there and I was…" She gestured with her hands in aggravation—Abba was far away, and talking to him from her hospital bed was a little odd. De-centering. She couldn't quite grasp that he could be present for her across the satellite feed. It was a little ridiculous, she felt; she used to talk on the phone every day at work, sometimes for hours.

The doctor held her hands. "It's ok. It's difficult enough to communicate right now. The phone is even harder—you can't see him, you can't touch him, you can't smell that sawdust. Did you make him understand what you needed?"

"Yes," she said proudly. "I said I was…small…um…" She looked away. "I was small scared."

Dr. Miller hadn't let go of Ziva's hands. "Still anxious, huh? Can you tell me about that?"

She closed her eyes. "It is not safe."

"I need more, Ziva."

"It is not _safe_. There is no…no…I do not have…to…to…" She pulled her hands away. "_Stop!_"

Dr. Miller wasn't rattled in the slightest. "Take deep breaths. Put your hands out—good. Now spread your fingers." Ziva splayed her hands on the tray. She calmed herself with the even yoga-breaths that her respiratory therapist taught her.

Miller waited a long minute before coaxing her again. "Tell me again, Ziva. Tell me why you're afraid, especially at night."

Ziva swallowed and tried to prevent an outburst. "I cannot…if someone comes I cannot help…me. I cannot…away or…or _hit_."

The doctor nodded, suspicions confirmed. "You feel helpless. You can't run or fight if someone tries to hurt you, and it makes you very scared. I completely understand. Your whole life has been about running and fighting and now you can't. How else do you feel besides afraid?

Ziva swallowed. "Dunno."

"Are you frustrated?"

"Yes."

"Are you angry?"

"Yes."

"Do you miss the way things used to be? Running? Fighting? Shooting?"

She paused to think. "Yes, but…I do not a _lot_. I miss…thinking. Making…better for people who…lost. But I do not miss shooting. I do not miss the…the…_bad_."

Dr. Miller nodded again. "You miss having the opportunity to help people. You miss your team, solving cases—the puzzle, the critical thinking, the complexity—but you don't miss the violence."

Ziva deflated, smiling. "Yes." Her focus wavered. She gripped the edges of the tray hard. "I might need down soon. It is getting hard. Hard-_er_."

"Ok. So can you tell me the last time you felt safe?"

She snorted. "Never."

The doctor's eyebrows went up. "Never, Ziva? You've _never_ felt safe? Not even with Abba or Tony?"

"Maybe," she grumbled softly. "But not much. It is hard because they might be…hm." She paused to think. "Might be bored. Or fris—frustrate—frustrat _ed_ with me. I want to…to have them. I do not want them to leave."

Dr. Miller pressed her lips together. "This is a very difficult time for everyone—you, them, us doctors—but they're in it for the long haul. They have both proven to be pretty devoted, don't you think? They come here at all hours, they help you, they stick up for you, they make sure the nurses and Dr. Monroe and I are doing our jobs. Why do you think they're going to leave?"

She scowled, tearful. "Papa left."

"Your father? Eli? He came to see you and went back to Tel Aviv, right?"

Ziva blinked back tears. "Yes. I want—_want-ed_—him to stay. But that was _stupid_. He would not. He would be…um…dis. Something. Mad."

"It is not stupid to want family around. You've been through something terrible and traumatic. You needed him. Watching him walk away had to have been very painful."

She sniffled. "I need down now, please."

Devorah lowered her back into a wheelchair. She let her hands linger for just a second longer than necessary. "You ok, sabra? Where do you want to go?"

"Down more," she mumbled. "I am dizzy." She wasn't dizzy, per se, just sad and in need of space.

Dev cupped Ziva's shoulder in one hand and pushed the chair with the other. "Let's go to the mats. I want to see if I can put you on your stomach."

Dr. Miller followed as Devorah and Freddie moved Ziva to a floormat, rolled her face down, and propped a wedge under her hips. She stripped the collar off and tossed it aside.

"Turn your head, Ziv," Dev prompted gently. She obeyed, wincing. "A little more—perfect. How's that?"

It was…cozy. She took the seams of her yoga pants into her hands and sighed. "This is nice."

"Good. We'll give you a few minutes and then we'll do core strength."

Dr. Miller put a hand on Ziva's back. "Is this a calming position for you?"

Her eyes were closed, the stress gone from her face. "Yes. This is so nice." She breathed out heavily and melted into all the cushioning.

"Can we keep going a little bit? You're having a very difficult time naming how you feel. I want to work on that. It'll make communicating with your family and me a little easier."

"My family is dead."

"No they are not, Ziva. They come here every day to spend time with you."

"My mother, my sister, my brother—dead. My father left."

Dr. Miller decided to push back. "So then you call Gibbs _Abba_ for no reason?"

She fell silent. "No. He…"

"He loves you," she finished for her. "He loves you very much. I can see it every time he talks to you or about you. He's proud of you the way a father is proud. He also knows that you're going through a very difficult process. He understands how lonely and frustrating it is to be in your position."

Ziva dissolved into quiet tears and threw her right hand over her face. She sobbed for several minutes, then collected herself and wiped her eyes. "Sorry," she warbled. "It is hard."

"I know. I'm here to make it easier, but it's a long and difficult process. Do you want to work or do you want to rest?"

"Work," she said quickly. She pushed with her arms, strained her shoulders, and rolled onto the mats with a _thud_. She grimaced and tried to get her elbows beneath her.

"Devorah!" She called. "I need up _now_."

She came with a theatrical huff. "You are one demanding little sabra, aren't you?" She sat Ziva against the wall and plopped down nearby. "Stay up," she ordered. "Find your center of gravity. Use the wall."

Ziva hummed. She listed to the right at first, then to the left. It was a fight to keep her shoulders squared above her hips and her head back.

"This is _hard_," she complained.

Devorah and Dr. Miller exchanged obvious eye rolls.

"You say that about everything," Dev groused. "I could swaddle you in bubble wrap, put you in a room full of cotton balls, and feed you ice cream all day but you'd still be kvetching about how it was_ hard_."

Ziva smiled. "Everything is hard. Have I give up yet?"

"Nope."

Dr. Miller handed Ziva a stack of picture cards. She took them with wiggly, uncertain hands. "Tell me how each person feels," she prompted quietly. "Be as specific as you can."

She flipped through the first four easily. _Happy. Sad. Angry. Annoyed_. The fifth was a man cradling an infant in a pink sleeper. She drew it close to her face, frowned, and set it aside.

"No."

The doctor wasn't in the mood. "Tell me, Ziva."

She closed her eyes. "No. That is not fair."

"Put yourself in the father's position. How would you feel, holding your new baby girl like that?"

"I cannot," she said flatly. "I will not have a baby. I got sick when…after…and I cannot."

"There are many ways to be a mother," Devorah said gently. "I have two adopted sons."

Ziva's frown deepened. "And you love?"

"Tremendously. They're my light."

She puzzled. "They are not yours but you love them."

Devorah slid closer. "The Talmud teaches in the volume _Sanhedrin_," she said slowly. "That whoever brings up and orphan in her home, it is like the child has been born to her—to _them_. You may have been your father's but he gave up—walked away. Who stepped in? Look at that card again. How do you think Gibbs would feel if _you_ were that baby? Not that I can ever imagine you in pink."

Ziva swallowed noisily. "He would be…love. A lot love."

"I think so, too," Dr. Miller agreed, watching Ziva's eyes flicker and her posture slump. "Let's end here for today. Can you handle screens? Can I bring you a tablet computer with a few games on it?"

She balked. "Dunno. Not by myself. Maybe with help."

The doctor nodded. "I'll stop by this evening and we'll figure something out. I have some great programs for critical thinking and short-term memory building. You might like them if the screen isn't too much. I know you don't like TV."

"No," she agreed, making a face. "Too loud."

"So I'll make sure the sound is off and the brightness is adjusted so it doesn't hurt your eyes."

Ziva yawned widely. "Ok. I will try. I think I need back, please?"

Devorah wagged a finger. "Nuh uh. We have a lot more to do today."

She yawned again. "That is fine."

She was quiet while Dev stretched her legs, felt her abdomen and hips, and frowned. "You know what?" She asked, but answered herself without waiting for her. "You're sitting up today."

With one gentle heave she lifted her onto a padded therapy table, laid her on her back, and straightened her stiff arms and legs. Ziva spasmed for a second, dizzy.

"Ok," Dev said easily and climbed onto the table next to her. "I'll push, but you have to roll, hang your legs, and sit up."

Ziva tightened her biceps in anticipation. "Ok. Ready?"

She rolled her shoulders, pushing hard against gravity and her own inertia. Devorah shoved her hips and, slowly and stiffly, her legs eased over the edge of the table. She stuffed her fists beneath her and struggled upright, swaying to compensate for her poor core strength. Her back curled and her head bobbed, but she smiled anyway.

"I did it!"

Devorah grinned back. "You did. Now lie back down and do it again. We need to retrain your muscles so this isn't so hard."

"Not too hard," Ziva frowned, leaning back.

Dev scooped her by the ankles. "Pull. I'll guide you."

They did it again and again until Ziva was sweating and exhausted. On their fifth round, Freddie set a cluster of orange road cones at her feet. He handed her five plastic rings, each as big around as a volleyball. She frowned at him, cocking her head to look in his eyes.

"Toss them over the cones," he guided. "See how many you can get."

She missed every one but held one hand out, propping herself with the other. "Again," she demanded.

Freddie handed her the rings and she missed the second time. "Again."

He retrieved them for her. More missing.

"Again," she said tightly. Her dark eyes were narrowed with determination. He handed the rings back, sharing a glance with Devorah.

Ziva missed a third time but held her hand out without asking. A fourth and fifth—nothing. She growled deep in her throat and held her hand out a sixth time.

More misses. Anger bloomed in her chest. She panted, furious, and held her hand out. "Again!"

Devorah took the hand Ziva held out. "Too much, sabra. I love your determination but you're getting a little too angry. Take a deep breath and blow those feelings away."

Ziva sagged. Dev had to move quickly to keep her from tumbling off the table.

"I am so _stupid_," she huffed. "I throw _knives _before."

"You're not stupid and I'm not giving you knives just yet. Let's work on rings and forks and spoons first. And pegs. Take another deep breath, please. I don't like how you're putting yourself down." Devorah threw an arm around Ziva's skinny shoulders and pulled her close for a side-hug. "You're ok, sabra. You just told me that. Remember?"

"I am ok," she echoed vaguely. "I just got mad."

"Use the anger, don't abuse it. Two more minutes and we're moving on." She didn't pull her arm away until Freddie brought a wheelchair over.

Ziva pointed. "Can I stand up?"

"Why not?" Devorah mused aloud. "You're not too tired?"

"No," she lied.

Devorah called her on it; getting strapped in and standing took more effort than it had earlier in the day. She checked her supports and ran a hand down each leg. "You need new sneakers—these aren't giving you enough support. Are you swollen after PT?"

Ziva had a policy to never look at her feet; it was too much of a reminder of all she'd lost. "Dunno. Say Tony."

"I'll tell him. I want you to check your knees, ankles and feet for swelling after each session with me. Have someone help you—I'll walk you though it when we're done today. Are the pressure stockings uncomfortable after we finish?"

"No," she answered honestly. "Never. Hurt before though, bad. I had to have them up." She sighed. "And drugs."

"That can happen. Sorry, sabra. Let's go to the pegboard." She frowned at Ziva's droopy eyes. "Scratch that. Let's put a small one on your tray."

They worked for another two hours on fine motor skills and self-care; pegboard, stacking cups, eating, dressing, brushing teeth. The afternoon passed quickly until they moved back to gross motor and Ziva found it hard to keep her eyes open.

"I am tired," she sighed. "Can I back, please?"

Devorah smiled. "This is the longest stretch I've gotten with you. Massage and stretch before bed."

Ziva hummed in relief when she was finally transferred and tucked beneath her quilt. She had a short talk with Claudia about pain—she hurt, but not nearly as bad as the day before—and Devorah jabbed her as she was drifting off.

"Remember what I said about checking for swelling, kiddo? Let's do it now."

Ziva groaned internally. She still hated to be touched below the waist. Part of it was the helplessness, the other part was disgust and shame.

Dev rolled her pant legs, peeled off the pressure garments, and poked delicately at the soft tissues around her knees and ankles. "Not too bad. Let's get a few pillows under your joints before you sleep. Your toes are a little puffy, too. They hurt?"

She looked hard at her feet. "Bugs."

"Tingly, huh? Pain?"

Ziva waved a hand, brows knitted. Her legs hurt persistently—a dull, throbbing achiness around her joints. It would flare after PT, sparking toward her back with an electric heat that stole her breath and made her cry. She'd screamed like a child the day before; Claudia had shifted her without warning and it had hurt so intensely she lost any modicum of self-control. She closed her eyes, embarrassed, as Devorah replaced her stockings and socks, then pulled the blanket up over her legs. Remembering suddenly—she'd planned all morning to ask—she jerked her eyes open and grabbed Dev's sleeve.

"We call Abba, maybe?"

Gibbs swaggered in smiling. "Tell him to bring me a coffee," he deadpanned.

Ziva grinned and held arms hands out. "Hi. I had a long day." She yawned in demonstration.

He gave her a hug. "Well take a nap and tell me all about it when you wake up. I was headed out for a few things, but I thought I'd stop by and see you. You did really well last night." He kissed her cheek. "Proud of ya, Ziver."

She smiled and sank deeper into the mattress. "Me, too. Go and come back later. Tony?"

"In trouble," he grumbled. "He threw a fit two days ago and earned himself a psych eval."

Her eyes darkened. "He is ok?"

"He needs a kick in the ass but yeah, he's fine."

Her lashes were fluttering—she was struggling to keep up with him. "Sleep," he commanded gently and gave her one last kiss goodnight.

Devorah shook her head at him. "She's still terrified you-all are gonna cut and run on her."

He sighed and shook back at her. "That's bull. No one is going anywhere."

She nodded, toying with the brim of her ballcap. "Ok, so we need to get some anti-anxiety therapies in place."

Gibbs shook his head again. "No more drugs—Monroe said she's already basting in medication. Make a different plan."

She scowled at him. "I was thinking of visits with a therapy dog and maybe a support group—no need to jump down my throat, leatherneck. Does she like animals?"

"Guess so. I don't know how she'd do in a group. She doesn't always play well with others."

Dev nodded. "She'd a bit of a rogue, that's for sure. We need to stop the middle-of-the-night conversations. She needs a minimum of six hours of uninterrupted sleep."

"Don't push it. She's accustomed to four, maybe less. And I really don't care if she calls me."

She narrowed her eyes and sized him up with a hard look. "You're up anyway, aren't you?"

Gibbs crossed his arms. "Sometimes. Back before all this she used to show up late once in a while, hang with me while she worked something out. She's tough—you have to let her deal with it herself. Don't try to drag it out of her. You're likely to get bit."

She rolled her eyes. "You think I don't know that? So what am I supposed to do—let her get up every night to make sure you haven't skipped town?"

He nodded. "Let her work it out," he said again. "I'm up. And I gotta go. We'll be around later—stop by if you're still working."

Devorah smirked. "You think I have the energy to stay late after five hours with her? You gotta be kidding me. Goodnight."

. . . .

Tony and Ofek were installing the remaining cabinet doors when Gibbs walked in. He slammed the front door to get their attention and growled in frustration when it didn't make a sound; Ofek had his guys install soft-close hinges that would prevent bangs and pinched fingers.

"Hey, Boss! Like the new kitchen?"

He appraised the granite and solid cherry cabinetry. "Not bad, DiNozzo. Is it worth a failed psych eval?"

He grinned and didn't stop working. "Hell yeah. You agree?"

Gibbs set a tray of coffees on the island. "Not sure I would want the black mark in my file."

Tony jumped down off the ladder. His grin turned devilish. "You see, Boss, I am having a terrible time coping with what happened to my partner. I have nightmares and flashbacks, I can't eat, I'm not sleeping…the only thing that consoles me is woodworking. And Ofek, here. He's been through the same thing. Almost."

Ofek gathered the screwdrivers they'd been using and put them back in his tool kit. He had an impish smile to match Tony's and three-day stubble on his face. "We've been busting our asses, Gibbs, and we're still going to come in over-budget. I'd take the hit to keep out of debt. Want a tour?"

He agreed and nodded as Tony and Ofek showed off the golden teak floors, the granite, the accessible stovetop, oven, and sink, the new bathroom in travertine and brushed nickel. The bedroom was finished in deep off-purple and pale grey. The new dining table—dark, modern wood with matching chairs and two leaves—would arrive the next day.

Gibbs was gruff with his praise, but meant it. "You guys do nice work. What about my ramp, DiNozzo?"

Tony's confident grin faded. "Uh, I guess I got a little sidetracked, Boss. I can come by tonight, if you want. We can turn and sand the last of those uprights…"

Gibbs' serious face broke into a smile. "It's done. Go see your girl."

"Ha ha," Tony groused. "Leave the humor to people who are actually funny. And yeah, I'm going over in fifteen minutes."

Gibbs slapped his shoulder and left without another word. Ofek was packing drill bits into a case. "I talked to my wife," he said carefully. "She said she might like to speak to Ziva. If she's in the mood, that is. She's putting in long days in physical therapy?"

"Yeah. Five hours today, more tomorrow. When would she like to come by?"

"Adi works from ten to two every day. She might want to stop by in the afternoon, but it depends. She often needs to rest after work. Ziva might find that she tires easily, especially if it's too hot or too cold."

Tony made a mental note to install heavy shades or curtains in the bedroom. "She's always cold. She wears fleece pants and two shirts every day and she's still freezing."

Ofek smiled. "Her thermostat doesn't work right. We keep our house around eighty degrees, even in the summer. Adi sleeps under an electric blanket ten months out of the year. Eleven if summer is late. We travel to Israel every August and she wears a scarf, even during the hottest part of the day."

Tony tossed a few extra screws in a plastic bag, labeled it _cabinets_, and put it in a drawer. "How do you deal, man? And I don't mean by watching TV in your skivvies. How do you do the day-to-day stuff?"

He shrugged. "I don't know any other way—Adi was injured fifteen years ago. We have a system. It took some time to learn and it's not failproof, but we do our best for each other."

"Were you married before or after she got hurt?"

"Before. It was a much harder adjustment for her than me, but we were also still in Israel at the time. It's easier here, and a big part of the reason we moved."

Tony nodded. "Does she have bad days? Does she still have pain?"

"Sometimes," Ofek said gently. "Every injury is different. She gets cold easily, as I said, but Adi is really prone to UTIs. They make her pretty sick—she gets a high fever, her blood pressure goes up, and she'll get spasms in her legs. I've had to take her to the hospital for them but most of the time we catch it before it gets bad."

"Scary," Tony whispered. "And you know the signs? How long did it take you to learn?"

"Not long. I saw it get bad only a few times and I promised I'd never let it happen again. It's like anything else, brother—you learn it and you live it. But don't forget that Adi and I have a good life. We have two beautiful kids—both conceived after she got hurt—a home together, a dog, vacations. You name it, we do it. Adi will try anything. We've gone skiing, parasailing, deep-sea fishing, wine-tasting."

Tony looked nervous. "I'm not sure Ziva would be up for that. She's been very shy since the accident."

Ofek waved a hand dismissively. "Unless she's going to stay home for the rest of her life…"

"She won't. I'm surprised she's not tearing her stuffing out by this point—she can be pretty infuriating."

"She's tired—her body is healing. Let her start feeling good before you start picking on her. Weren't you supposed to leave by now?"

He checked his watch; dinner would arrive in minutes. "Manaña."

Ofek laughed. "It's _machar, _brother."

. . . .

Tony found Ziva staring, dispirited, at a bowl of unidentifiable stew. She stirred it once with her fat-handled spoon and sighed.

"I do not want this," she scowled. "I want steak."

He kissed her above the feeding tube. "No can do, sweet cheeks, but I don't blame you. What _is_ that?"

"Dunno," she grunted, and tossed the spoon down. "I want to go home."

He smiled. "Kitchen is done. Want to see it?"

"Yes."

He held out his smartphone, pictures already on the screen. "Here. Check out the paint in the bedroom. I got it to match your bedroom in the condo down to one percent of the original shade. Pretty cool, huh?"

She frowned at the screen, pulled back, and rubbed her eyes. "It is hard to look, Tony. Can you…big?"

He sighed internally. "Let's have Abby put them on a tablet for you. Bigger is better, huh?"

"It will improve," she said pointedly. "But my brain is…is…so dizzy that the pitch…pi_ct_ures are hard to see when small. Devorah said use the tablet because bigger. Better for my eyes and fingers."

He picked up her hands and kissed them. "I love those fingers. How was your workout today?"

Ziva smiled. "It was ok. I stand…_stood_…for a long time, and Dev and I worked on sitting big." A strange look passed over her face and she straightened up—she tended to slump forward even when wearing her Miami collar.

"That's great. Maybe tomorrow you can show me all the things you learned. Where is everyone?"

"Coming," she said, and bobbed against gravity.

Tony slid onto the bed next to her. "I need a cuddle," he said honestly. "We worked really hard today."

To his surprise, she snuggled against him. "Me, too. You think maybe Gibbs bring…something else? Or Tim? I am hungry but…"

He pulled her closer. "I'll text them and ask, but I think they're feeding you this stuff for a reason. Did you talk to your nurse?"

"No," she said quietly. "I did not want. I thought she would be…mad."

A wave of protectiveness crashed over his shoulders. His fingers found the sharp rim of her right hip and rubbed delicately. He knew she'd lost weight—Dr. Monroe couldn't seem to stop telling him—but holding her drove it home. Her collarbones protruded, her spine was a row of little round knobs, her fingers thin and birdlike in his own. "You should be able to eat something you like."

"I do not want to complain."

Tony remembered what Ofek said. He took a breath and spoke cautiously, arms laced around her. "It's ok to advocate for yourself. I love to do it—it makes me feel like your white knight—but don't be afraid to say what you like or don't like. No one will get upset with you. And if they do, tell them to stuff it."

She smiled against his shirt. "_You_ stuff it. I will say when I am ready. Patient."

The cavalry came in winter coats, smiling and offering bags of home-cooked food. Ziva shivered at the sight of their hats and scarves, sliding deeper into the bedclothes.

"I made pasta primavera," Abby announced. "It's a safe food. Want to try, Zivvie?" She made a face at the stew on the table. "I'll take that as a yes. Where's a clean bowl?"

McGee smiled sheepishly as she bounced out to the nurses' station and leaned over Tony to give Ziva a peck on the cheek. "It's made with winter squash and chicken and we went light on the salt. I heard you got a new computer. Mind if I take a look?"

She pointed. "I need to see pictures of my house. Can you help?"

He was already working. "Yeah. Tony, can I have your phone?"

Gibbs slapped Tony's leg affectionately. "Off. My turn."

They traded places and Gibbs wrapped Ziva in a tight hug. "Heard you still think we're gonna bail."

She shifted away, eyes narrowed. "Do not, Abba. Please."

He pulled her close again and put his chin on her head. "We're not leaving, David—none of us. I know you can't seem to understand that now, but when you're ready to get out of here it's going to be us who have the car warmed up and the blankets ready. You think you can handle that?"

She gave him a sideways look. "Ok. But I need to be mad sometimes."

"Me, too," he agreed. "I damn near took DiNozzo's head off—blew a psych eval on purpose so he could finish the house."

Ziva rolled her eyes. "He will always get…his way."

"Unless he's getting yours. Abby's coming back with your dinner. You gotta eat, kiddo."

She sighed. "I know. I want this out." She poked an irritated finger at the feeding tube. It left a sore on the back of her tongue that made fruit juices into liquid lava.

"So eat and fatten up, for Chrissake."

Abby put a bowl of pasta, chicken, and yellow squash in front of her and held out Ziva's fork. "Eat," she commanded.

Ziva ignored the commands, took a bite, and chewed, dark eyes wide and happy. "It is so good. You made? Abby, I love it."

She blushed and doled out portions for everyone. They ate and gossiped; Ziva wouldn't admit that she found it difficult to follow their conversations, but she enjoyed the company and the hum of activity they brought.

"I need new shoes," she announced when the din died down. "Devorah said. Mine are too old and not…good anymore.'

Tim grabbed one out of the closed and examined the treads. "How many miles did you put on these? There's no cushioning left."

"A lot," she mused.

"Tony, you might want to buy her a pair in her size and a half-size up. Are you swelling after PT?"

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Why always asking that?"

"Because we don't want you to be uncomfortable. You might not actually hurt, but pain responses can make your blood pressure spike and your muscles go into spasms."

She remembered the muscle spasms from the early days; they were terribly painful and lasted for hours. "Ok. Tony, you buy new shoes. Take those and have someone help."

Tim put his hands on the footboard of her bed. "Can I check your legs and feel for swelling? You might need another pillow under your knees."

She ate a bite of pasta. "Fine. But gentle."

He pulled the blankets back, tugged off the pressure garments, and examined her knees, ankles, and feet as Devorah had. "I'm going to touch you," he explained clinically. "Keep your eyes open and watch everything I do. Tell me if it hurts or if there's any change in sensation."

Ziva braced herself, exhaled once, and watched him poke at the puffiness under her patellae, around the ball of her ankle, and across the instep of her foot.

"Your joints are still puffy," he said quietly. "Have they given you any anti-inflammatories?"

She didn't know her medication schedule and told him so without hesitation. "I cannot listen to the nurses," she said honestly.

Tim nodded. "You're going to have trouble managing spoken input. If we speak to you directly you do fine, but other people's conversations?"

She made a face. "So hard." He pressed firmly on the base of her toes and she gasped. "Ow, Ma-Gee! Why did you that?"

Tony, Gibbs, and Abby had stopped talking and were watching with interest.

Tim pressed again, gently. "Wiggle your toes, Ziva."

She frowned. "Not funny."

"Just try."

She chewed a piece of squash and frowned again, concentrating as she did when she pushed with her legs. To her surprise, her toes jerked in Tim's hand.

She jumped in surprise. "Other."

He stripped off the pressure stocking and held her left foot. "Go ahead."

She wiggled again, dinner forgotten.

Abby began to whisper in hushed excitement, speculating. What,_ exactly_ had they just seen? And did it mean…?

Tim carefully re-dressed her in the discarded garments and tucked the quilt back around her legs. "I want to speak to Dr. Monroe," he said cautiously. "I think we should re-evaluate."

Abby sat next to Ziva and gave her a tight hug. "What do you think, Timmy?"

"I don't want to say. I'm sorry, but I want to speak to the doctor first before I discuss it with you guys."

Anger crept up Tony's throat, but he had to agree that McFeelie had a point—he didn't want to get his hopes up only to have them dashed upon the rocks. "It's fine, McGee. Talk to her and tell us about it later."

Ziva had begun to doze in Abby's arms but woke when she slid from the bed. "I need to sleep," she whined. "You are so loud."

They cleaned up quickly, packed their containers into a reusable shopping bag, and donned their coats. The promised all the while to come back the next night. Abby took several dinner orders and thought about a way to make friend chicken safe-diet friendly.

Tony helped her turn over and tucked her in. He dropped a kiss on her mouth. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispered back. "You should come tomorrow. With Devorah."

"Ok. You want me to be there?"

"Yes. You are strong. And big."

He nuzzled her and took the collar off. "You're using me for my body?"

"It works," she said bluntly, and smiled mischievously.

"Yours does, too," he reminded her. "It's just different. Sleep tight. Call me if you need me."

Tim was lingering in the doorway. Ziva beckoned him over with the crook of her finger.

"I want to walk," she informed him softly. Her eyes were unwavering and there was a confidence in her voice he hadn't heard since that terrible day at Bolling Air Force Base.

"Ok," he agreed, surprised to hear it come from his own mouth. "I'll speak to your doctor."

"I will be patient," she said seriously. "But I want to walk."

McGee kissed her cheek, nodding, thoughtful. "I'm not making promises," he replied. "Is this a secret?"

"No—a surprise." She yawned. "Go. Goodnight."

He pressed a smartphone into her hand. It was the hottest model on the market and had a large retina-display screen. "This is programmed with all of our numbers—via photo, not name. Call whomever you need. We love you. Goodnight."


	21. Driver Eight

__**The subtitle to this chapter should be "A Return to Hermitville." Thanks, all, for the love. Do I give it back in spades? I hope so. Big love.**

_And the train conductor says,_

_ "Take a break, Driver Eight; Driver Eight, take a break._

_ We can reach our destination, but we're still a ways away."_

_ -REM, "Driver Eight."_

Leon Pignatoro had a barrel chest and thick, ropy forearms. Dressed in a grey wool suit and gold cufflinks, he looked at Agent Curtis through narrowed brown eyes. The toothpick in his teeth moved right-to-left.

"I hate Jews."

Curtis narrowed his blue eyes to match. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Damn kikes runnin' a racket from here to Hollywood." He ticked each of his fat fingertips. "New York, Chicago, L.A. They got their greedy Sheeny fingers in every single goddamn thing. Movies, banks, the ponies, whores…you name it, you payin' a kike for it." He snorted and crossed his arms. "My family's been trying to run 'em out of New York for years. Now they're following us into the 'burbs. Buying out our Nonnas' houses and bakeries to put up more of their schools. That's where they start—with the kids. Training them up to take our money and run our country. This is gonna be the United States of Israel before you know it."

Curtis did not roll his eyes. He pushed the photo of Ziva in her NCIS jacket and ballcap across the table. "Mr. Pignatoro, is this your way of confessing to the paid hit on one of our agents?"

Pignatoro studied the picture, a small smile on his lips. "Pretty girl. For a Jewess, anyway. What a shame."

Curtis leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "Is that a confession, Mr. Pignatoro?"

He shrugged, arms still crossed. "You got Carvelli and the DeCroo brothers, don't you?"

"Gianni Carvelli and Carlos DeCroo are both in federal detention. Thomas DeCroo passed away, unfortunately. Will you please answer the question?"

Pignatoro shrugged again. "Where's your evidence?"

"Did you pay to have Agent David killed?"

Behind the glass, Leon Vance crossed his arms to match Pignatoro. "He has got to have twenty men working for him. His books came back with a payroll as long as my arm. What's Suffolk PD doing about that?"

Gibbs sipped his coffee. "They're on it, Leon."

Vance scowled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means they're on it. Relax and get a confession." He pressed the button to speak into Curtis' earpiece. "Move on."

Curtis pushed another photo across the table. Eliezer and Zlata Dvorak stared up at Pignatoro, unflustered by typhoid vaccines and hungry, screaming infants. "Do you know these people?"

He smirked. "I know they're the reason I don't run New York."

"And is that the reason you paid Carvelli to kill Agent David?"

Pignatoro's smirk turn into a malicious smile. "Lawyer."

. . . .

Tony strutted into Ziva's room to find her nested in bed with her phone, her tablet computer, her owl, and a jug of cranberry juice the size of his head. She looked at him pathetically, huffed in aggravation, and push the tablet away.

"I am sick," she whimpered. "I have an infection from the catheter. I am bore. _Bore-d_!"

He kissed her feverish brow. "Claudia told me when I got off the elevator. She said lots of fluids and rest. They'll start an IV of antibiotics if you get any warmer."

She growled. "I do not want."

"Well I don't want you to be sick." He pushed the hospital-issue mug toward her. It was oversized, insulated, and came with a fat bendy straw. "Drink up."

She took a careful sip, wincing when it hit the ulcer in her throat. "Ow."

"Whiny ninja. What are you playing?"

She turned the tablet back on. "It is a game for my memory. Did you play it when…small? It is like the cards and match…" She demonstrated her current level. "It gets hard-er when I win."

Tony matched a tree and a treehouse. "And you win a lot, I'm sure. Are you still going to PT later?"

"I do not _know_," she complained. "Claudia say…_said_ maybe late. Devorah said I cannot if I have a fever."

"Can't say I blame her—you're dizzy enough without one. How much did you drink so far?" He pried the lid off and peered inside—the contents were half-gone. He handed it back. "Drink."

She took three long swallows, eyes still locked on the screen. "I am busy."

"You're not too busy to drink. More."

Ziva batted at his hand. "It hurts my throat. I do not want."

He wouldn't let her petulance get to him. "Then it's IV fluids. Make your choice."

She swiped the cup from the table and drank, glaring at him. "Ugh," she mewled, setting it down. "I feel so bad."

"I'm sorry," Tony murmured, sweeping her damp hair back into a ponytail—it was freshly washed with her own shampoo. Claudia had discovered the fever at bath time and confirmed a UTI when she'd changed her catheter.

"You did so well yesterday. It must be frustrating to feel crappy today."

She leaned her head back against the pillows. "It is," she moped. Tears formed in her eyes and she grabbed his shirt. "Tony?"

"Hm?" He stroked her hair again, expecting a meltdown.

She pointed to the recliner, eyes magically dry. "I want to sit there and work. Can you help?"

He rang for the nurse. "Of course, baby. Let's ask Claudia, too. I don't want to move you without help. Not yet, anyway. Let me get a little more confident with transfers before I go it alone."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But you do it. Not her."

He nuzzled her neck but pulled away, blushing, when the nurse came in. "She wants to sit in the recliner and work at the table. Help me move her?"

She smiled and winked. "No problem, Romeo. Ziva, we should put your collar on."

She didn't look up from the computer. "No."

"Ok, but it goes on if you start to hurt. Want to swing around for me?"

Ziva pushed with her elbows but couldn't quite slide her legs over the edge. "I just learned," she protested angrily. "I need _help_ still."

Tony gave her hips a gentle shove. "There."

She steadied her bobbing head. "Do not drop me," she said sharply.

"Never," he promised, heart tearing a little, and lifted her easily into the waiting easy chair. He wanted her to trust him with these things; it hurt that she didn't.

She waved a hand. "Back small more, Tony. I need to be up so I can see."

He slid her back and put a pillow behind her head. Claudia checked her pulse and blood pressure.

"Lookin' good. Comfortable?"

She pouted. "Cold."

Tony snapped the quilt and tucked it around her. "Better?"

"Yes." She poked at the air with her index finger, eyes on the tablet in the bed. "I need that. I want to work."

He put it on the table and took her place in the bed, stretching his legs, propping his head on one of her ergonomic cushions so he could comfortably read the news on his phone. He scrolled through the sports section without absorbing any of it.

"Remember to drink your juice," he said absently. "Hey, this air mattress is nice. Should I get one for at home?"

Ziva looked up, eyes murderous. "Do not tease."

He looked at her in disbelief. "What? I'm being serious. If this is comfortable for you then I'll get one for our bed. I want you to sleep well and not worry about bedsores."

She ignored him, not wanting to think about how much of the hospital would follow them home. She pointedly played her game and sipped juice until the straw crackled and she hiccupped from taking in air.

"More, please," she demanded, thrusting the cup in his general direction. She fed the word _flurry_ to a monster and earned another hundred points.

Tony got up, moaning as his knees popped. "How about I run to the store and get a few things I know you like? Maybe some orange-mango juice, a few iced green teas—low sugar, I know—and some soup for your lunch? Sound good?"

She smiled, finally over her little tantrum. "Yes, please. Maybe crackers, too?"

He swept his keys off the table and dropped a kiss on her head. "Be good while I'm gone."

She switched to a different game and puckered for a kiss. "I will. Bye."

She wasn't alone for long. Movement at the door made her heart rate spike; she did not like it when the aides came in without knocking.

"What?" She commanded anxiously.

A woman in a high-tech, rigid-frame wheelchair was at the threshold. She was young—perhaps in her early thirties—and wore jeans and a leather jacket. An _expensive_ leather jacket, if Ziva was right about the cut and stitching. She smiled and took off her blue wool beret.

"Shalom. My name is Adi Shilton. My husband is helping Tony remodel your house." She rolled in easily, swung around the bed, and stopped in front of the table.

Ziva closed the tablet and took in Adi's confident smile and wild, wavy, dark hair. She suddenly felt very small and very plain in her yoga pants. She glanced nervously at the catheter bag hanging in full view. Sorrow and self-pity crept up the back of her throat.

"Hello," she replied timidly.

Adi cocked her head. "Ofek sent me to speak to you. I don't normally do this, but when I heard you were from Tel Aviv I decided it would be ok. How did you get hurt?"

Ziva tried to brush the shyness aside. "Someone hit me."

Her smile thinned and her eyes narrowed in concern. "I'm so sorry. What's your level of injury?"

Ziva frowned. "Hm?"

"Your level of injury is where sensation stops. I'm a T10 complete—that means I have no sensation below the waist."

"Dunno," she confessed. She couldn't remember—C-something? She'd have to ask. Her neck prickled and she rubbed it, brows knitted.

Adi smiled again. "You need to know. Are you complete or incomplete?"

"I can move," Ziva said carefully. "I can push, pull, wiggle toes."

She nodded. "You're still having a lot of pain?"

Ziva nodded slightly. "Yes. I am sick today."

"UTI?"

She nodded again, blushing.

"I get them, too. It's ok. Be careful with the antibiotics; don't let them give you too many. They'll narrow your treatment options if you build up a tolerance. How's your pain?"

"Bad sometimes. It is…hard. I do not know how to say them."

Adi squinted at her. "That is not your accent. Your speech is...different. Clipped. Like you don't trust yourself. What happened?"

Ziva blushed deeper and swallowed back tears of shame. "My head…he hit me and it damage. It is hard to find…to find the right ones. I say wrong a lot. It makes…feel stupid." She let her hands fall into her lap.

Adi put her palms beneath her hips and pushed up, balancing her weight on her hands. She wiggled her shoulders and bit and sat back down. "You're not stupid. How long have you been here?"

"Dunno." She had trouble keeping track of things—days, routines, belongings, information from the doctors. It was a source of embarrassment she hadn't yet shared with Tony. Gibbs knew, but he'd promised her that he didn't think she was dumb or willfully ignorant.

"I mean in the U.S. How long?"

She thought for a long minute but couldn't concoct an answer. "Dunno," she finally mumbled again, humiliated.

Adi pulled herself closer, leaned her arms on the table, and propped her chin on her stacked fists. "I got hurt when I was still in the IDF. Building collapse—suicide bomber in the Ben Yehuda pedestrian mall. I wasn't even on duty, just having a coffee with some of my squadron mates."

Ziva nodded mutely. Her own squadron had been sent to Jerusalem to help manage the after-effects. Threats lingered for months. She'd patrolled the city alone, toting an M16, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail.

"I remember," she said softly. "Your friend died." Nava Appelbaum had been twenty years old, beautiful, and blown to pieces.

"She did," Adi confirmed. "I was very angry. Not so much because I was hurt, but because I'd lost my only real friend. I screamed at Ofek and my parents a lot in those first few weeks. "

Ziva sucked in a hard breath, mouth dry. "I do not. I am afraid that…that they will go."

"Your friends? That's normal. This is a huge change—a huge _trauma. _Some people can't handle having a friend in a chair."

Ziva's gaze wouldn't leave the tabletop. "There is no one else," she said softly. "My father came but he…left and he said he could not…he would not have me. If Tony goes, my friends...there is no one else." Her eyes were wet. She swiped at them angrily, flinching when her knuckles caught the adhesive on her cheek.

Adi had a sweet face but her hazel eyes were sharp as tacks. "You need a therapist."

"I am on medication."

"You need someone to talk this out with you—a professional. You need someone who can help you develop ways to deal with your feelings. A therapist can do that and help you manage your meds. I see one, still, and it's been fifteen years."

Ziva's head jerked up. She ignored the spur of pain in her hands. "Why? You are fine."

"I am," Adi agreed. "But sometimes I'm not. I was on medication, too, for the first few years. I was too angry. The antidepressanthelped take some of the peaks off my up-and-downs. The therapist helped me with my grief for both my friend _and_ the life I had to leave behind. Don't you miss your independence? Your home, your furniture, your own bed, your work?"

"Yes," she admitted. "I miss my books. I miss my kitchen and cooking. I miss running in the park."

"You can cook and read," Adi warned.

Ziva tucked her fists together in her lap. "I am so…tired. Always. And my hands—in the beginning I could not…I had to learn, and they are…soft. It is hard to point, hard to hold…" She made a sloppy fist in demonstration.

"Your injury is high, then. You might not get all your strength back but there are plenty of adaptive technologies you can learn to use."

"My fork and spoon…straps," she grumbled. "I try to not…but then I spill."

Adi chuckled. "So? I spill stuff all the time. And I fall. And I drop things. And you know what? So does Ofek. He makes messes constantly. I'm not even going to tell you about my two small boys. They can turn the living room into a minefield for me."

Ziva smiled but it turned serious. "You had children after?"

"Yes—conceived naturally. I carried them both to full term, but it had an effect on my mobility towards the end. Though I think it does for every woman."

"I cannot, but not because…from long ago." She took a breath. "I was Mossad. I got captured…the men were…they were cruel. They hurt me and I got very sick." She peeked up between her lashes to find Adi looking at her with soft eyes and an open, concerned expression. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. That is terrible. I hope Tony killed those men for you. But remember that there are many ways to become a mother. You'll find the right one if you decide that's what you want."

Ziva ignored the statement about motherhood. She wasn't ready to think about managing another human when she wasn't even manageable, herself.

"My father killed…them," she replied quietly. The pounding in her head grew louder and she rubbed ineffectively at her eyes. "I am sorry, but I feel _so_ bad."

Adi nodded, patted her hand, and lifted Ziva's new smartphone from the table. "This is yours? I will program my number into it. Call me when you have questions. Or call me when you want to take a walk," she paused and winked. "Or drink a coffee. Call me when your therapist says you're ready to go to wheelchair clinic. I can help you with sizing, maybe teach you a few tricks."

Ziva flushed red and a small smile played at the corners of her mouth—she'd never had a friend that wasn't work-related. "As long as you are not too busy," she faltered.

Adi smirked. "You think I would offer if I was too busy? Take care of yourself and learn as much as you can—it's the only way you can be more independent." She came around the recliner and gave Ziva a small peck on the cheek. "Shalom. _Refuah sh'leima._"

"_Toda,_" she replied hollowly, a little in awe of how easily she maneuvered around the room and into the hallway.

Adi must've passed Tony in the hall because he came in with a sack full of drinks and a crooked smile on his face. He pointed at Ziva quizzically.

"Did you make a new friend?"

She smiled, feeling oddly relieved and light-hearted. "Yes. She is _nice_. She is…like me." A strange look passed over her face, but she blinked hard and changed the subject. "You bringing…" She stopped to make a face at her mistake. "For me? I am thirsty."

He poured a bottle of orange juice into her cup and cut it with a half a bottle of water. "Here. I brought soup, too. Hungry?"

"Yes."

He put the container in front of her—leek and potato—and tightened the spoon's strap across her knuckles. She ate happily, stopping only to take a long swallow of juice.

"Very good," she praised.

He nodded from behind a pastrami sandwich. "No crackers," he shrugged. "But I got you some bread. Want to try?" He unwrapped half a baguette with a dense, chewy crust.

"Um," she hemmed. "Maybe take off? I cannot if…it is too hard."

He peeled off the crust and stuffed it in his own mouth. "Try it now, Zi," he prodded, cheeks full.

She took a tentative bite and hummed in satisfaction; he'd smeared it with sweet cream butter and it offset the savory soup perfectly. "So good," she murmured.

"I slaved for hours over a hot stove," he bemoaned. "I went out in the wind and the rain to harvest those leeks. I plucked them so lovingly from the tree that it bent down and wept with joy."

She stared, spoon poised to her mouth. "They grow _dirt_, Tony."

He smiled. "So you're saying the tree didn't weep?"

She giggled and took another bite.

Claudia knocked on the doorframe. "How are you feeling, Ziva?"

She shrugged—a novel gesture she hadn't been able to make in weeks. "Bad, I guess. Head hurts. And it…burns." She flushed red, casting a nervous glance at Tony.

"Keep drinking," the nurse counseled. "Wash those cells clean. I'll get your vitals real quick."

She checked Ziva's heart rate, respiration, blood pressure, and temperature, then shook her head and sighed.

"Looks like you're getting IV fluids and antibiotics, Ziv—your fever is up over one-oh-two and your urine is still cloudy. Left arm or right?"

Ziva echoed her sigh, pushed her empty bowl away, and held up her left arm. "And I want back in bed," she said to Tony.

He jumped up and took her in his arms. "I got this," he said over his shoulder. Claudia winked and stepped aside so he could shift Ziva back onto the mattress.

"There," he announced, tucking the quilt back around her legs. "Better?"

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered, and held out her left arm. She didn't wince when the IV was inserted and taped down.

Claudia hung a bag of tetracycline. "You're not off the hook—keep drinking. Want something else?"

"No. Tony has more for me. Tea, please?" She held out her mug.

He rinsed the jug and filled it with white tea sweetened with peach nectar. "So, tell me about your new BFF."

She hid behind the straw for a minute, collecting her thoughts. "Um, she is nice. She said I should try to remember more what Dr. Monroe says. I can more…"

"Be more independent?"

She nodded. "Yes." She fell silent. "Did you see how…she is fast?"

Tony swallowed the last bite of his overstuffed sandwich. "How did you feel about Adi and her chair?"

Ziva frowned. "She does everything. Mostly. She works and has a home and boys. She is…_normal_, Tony. I want normal."

There was a strange flutter in Tony's chest—a pressure. A feeling that he couldn't quite describe, but didn't dislike. "Can I be part of that normal?"

She gave him a wry eye-roll. "You are part of _not_-normal, Tony. Why I would say 'go'?" Her eyes widened again and she grabbed his wrist desperately. "But do not go. Please? I do not want you go. I love you."

He kissed the hand that clenched his arm. "I love you, too. I'm not going anywhere. Believe me, Zee-vah, I don't want to be anywhere else."

She sipped her tea. "You got…trouble on pur-sis."

His brow creased. "Huh?"

She huffed. "You got trouble. Gibbs say you…you made a fit and Vance said you were out."

Tony laughed and nodded. "On _purpose_?" He thrust his chin in the air. "So what if I did?" He winked conspiratorially.

Ziva punched his shoulder. "You are fool. You get trouble any more and you will here because…no work."

He kissed her temple. "I'm not going to lose my job; we have a mortgage to pay. I'm just taking a little break so I can get you back on your feet. Er…butt."

He shrank in his chair, expected her to rage at him, but she just laughed and punched his arm again. Sobering, she laced their fingers together. "I am ok, Tony. I am…groomy? Gum..? But I am ok. I love you even still."

He clicked his tongue, surprised to find tears gathering in his eyes. "Even if I'm the most infuriating man in the world? Even if I make bad jokes? Even if you're _grumpy_?"

"Grumpy," she parroted. "Yes. Love you always."

He climbed onto the bed next to her. "I love you, too. Always and more always. C'mere." He drew her close and she rested her head beneath his shoulder, suddenly heavy with fatigue.

"Nice," she murmured, drifting.

He kissed her brow, half-checking the fever. "Yeah. Maybe you should nap for a bit. Is Dev coming to see you?"

"I am sick," she informed him quietly.

"You'll be ok." He threaded an arm beneath her and traced a long line down her side, over the ridge of her hip.

She shoved his hand away. "Ow."

"That hurts?"

"No."

He smirked against her hair. "You are a little wounded tiger today."

He felt her smile against his shirt. "Yes."

"Grumpy ninja."

Ziva harrumphed. "Sh." Sleep was tugging at her, dragging her toward the depths with smooth, even strokes of her hair and cheeks. She took a breath, then another, and slid beneath the dark surface.

. . . .

McGee knocked tentatively on the door of Dr. Monroe's office. She bid him enter without looking up from her paperwork.

"I'm here on behalf of Ziva David," he said formally, hands sweaty. "She and I made a discovery last night that prompts me to speak to you."

Dr. Monroe nodded. "She can wiggle her toes. I'm working on a new evaluation for her right now. I'll do a full exam on rounds tonight. How is she coping with the urinary tract infection?"

He blushed. "Tony says she's ok—feeling lousy, but not terrible. Do you think she's ready for transfer to a full inpatient rehab facility?"

She shook her head. "No, not until she's weaned completely from the NG tube. I'd like to see her gain five pounds and be absence-seizure-free before she goes."

"When was her last neurological event?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Anne registered one late last night—she didn't wake fully, but there were blips on the monitors that suggested a seizure. I'm going to do another EEG to see if she's having them without us noticing."

McGee nodded. "Do you expect her to be here for another week? Two weeks?"

"I don't want to guess," she admitted honestly. "I'm happy with the rehab routine she's in now—she's monitored closely but gets the hours in PT, OT, and speech she needs. Dr. Miller said she's making strong strides in prosody and syntax."

"She's still floundering for words," he said, feeling a little exasperated. "Her recall is really slow and only about sixty percent accurate."

"It was less than forty. Give her time."

He sat in one of the visitor chairs. "I think she needs more that what she's getting."

Dr. Monroe sat back and tented her fingers. "I'm listening."

"I want to see her get into a full gait-training routine with a minimum of thirty minutes on a treadmill every other day—non-weight-bearing, of course. I want to see her in four to six hours of PT a day with OT and Speech on an intense schedule. I also want you to start weaning her off the feeding tube. Slow down the nocturnal feeds and let her eat more at meals. Maybe five meals a day instead of three."

She nodded, thinking over his demands. "We're doing four to six in PT, we're weaning her off the feeds, and why do you want to rotate PT and OT when she's still so dependent for self-care?"

He took a breath. "I know Ziva; she's not an easy person to deal with. She'll rise to the challenge if we take away some of the support."

The doctor frowned, concerned. "Are you happy with her care?"

"Yes, of course, but Ziva told me last night that she wants to walk. I came here to do her bidding."

Surprisingly, Dr. Monroe smiled. "She does, huh? Is that why the push for possible load-bearing therapies?"

Tim nodded, Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes. I like their success rates. I want real values in strength and agility—do you think she can do it?"

"Walk via Lokomat? Sure. Independently? Not now, maybe not ever. She's only capable of standing for twenty or thirty minutes at a time. Walking requires twice the energy for her, but if you think she can do it then who am I to argue? Let's get her on the treadmill tomorrow. You want to be there?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. I want to make sure she feels safe and secure. I want to see where and how much her legs are working."

"Fine." Monroe checked her watch. "I'm going to start rounds early so I can make enough time for Ziva. Walk with me—let's call Devorah and see what she thinks."

Gibbs was lifting Ziva back into the recliner when they walked in. She smiled and waved but didn't let go of his neck. He pried her fingers away, kissed them, and sat in the chair next to hers without letting go of her hands.

"Hi," she chirped, cheeks still pink with fever.

McGee smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. "I told Dr. Monroe what you told me. She and Devorah came up with a plan but you're going to have to be ok with it."

She blinked at him, smile fading. "What plan?"

Dr. Monroe checked Ziva's blood pressure and pulse but didn't let go of her wrist. "We think you would benefit from a gait-training program. What that means is that Devorah and Freddie will put you in a harness, hook it to a big frame, and then strap you to a machine that will help you "walk" on a treadmill. The idea is that the reciprocating gait motion will teach your brain and spinal cord to work together again—hopefully regenerating some of those connections that broke when you were injured. We'll also be able to tell which muscles you can use and how strong you are."

"Ok," she agreed, looking deliberately at McGee. He gave her a hesitant smile.

The doctor touched her shoulder. "Ziva, this program means a lot of straps and buckles on you—it might feel like restraints. Are you going to be ok if we do that?"

Her eyes darkened. "Dunno," she admitted softly. "But we can try."

Gibbs winked at her and she smiled. "When is this going to happen, Doc?"

"Tomorrow. Devorah already penciled her in at the treadmill at ten. Make sure you eat a good breakfast, Ziva. You're going to burn more calories than ever."

She looked at Tony. "What you bring me?"

"Protein" Gibbs supplied. "Eggs, cheese. Toast and juice for carbs and fruit sugar."

Tony nodded, jerking his thumb at his boss. "What he said. How long is this program going to last?"

"It depends—we'd like to see her make gains in core strength and stability. I'd say three days a week for eight weeks, initially, then on an as-needed basis after that."

Ziva stared, listening hard to the conversation around her. "Wait," she blurted. "What is my level? I need to remember."

"C7," McGee supplied. "You sustained a contusion between your last cervical and first thoracic vertebrae, but the swelling went all the way up your neck. You had a pretty bad case of spinal shock—that's why you couldn't move or cough in those first few weeks. Now that it's wearing off you're gaining back movement and strength in your upper body, and even some in your legs."

"C7. C7. C7. C7," she mumbled to herself, committing it to memory. "And this walk will help learn…how to…remember how…" Her brain went blank, her mouth slackened. Words fled.

Gibbs jumped in for her. "This will help," he said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"No doubt," Dr. Monroe assured him. "It's not just good for your injury, it's also good for balance, strength, stability, cardio, joint mobility…I can go on and on. I think your pain levels are stabile enough that you can handle it, Ziva."

She blinked. "What if I am sick?"

"The antibiotics are working. You should be a lot better by tomorrow morning. Your urine isn't even cloudy anymore. Does it still burn in your belly?"

"No," she mumbled, embarrassed.

Tony chucked her gently under the chin. "Don't be embarrassed. Remember what McBrainiac told you way back when? It's not upsetting or hard for us to deal with the catheters and tubes and needles. We don't like them, but we're not ashamed of you for needing them."

She nodded, still flush. "Ok. Yes, it burns. But not as much." She gave Tony a hard look. "Happy now?"

He grinned and nodded. "Adi told you to be your own advocate. This is part of that."

She glowered at him. "How you know she say?"

"How do you think she got here?"

Ziva shut her mouth with a _pop_. "Oh. Fine."

He smirked and Dr. Monroe motioned to the bed. "Why don't you lie back down, Ziva? I'd like to do a checkup."

Tony transferred her easily. "What about her weight, Doc?"

She felt the lymph nodes in Ziva's throat. "What about it? Other than she needs to gain at least five pounds." She looked in her eyes, ears, nose, and throat, then checked her heart and lungs. "Tell me about the Topamax."

Ziva shrugged. "It is ok. My head is only small noise. And not always—only sometimes. It is good, I think. I can remember more words when it is quiet." She frowned when Dr. Monroe tested the range of motion in her wrists, elbows, and shoulders. "But sometimes, when everyone talk, I do not…listen. It is too much."

"Mm hmm. What's that like?"

"Loud," she snorted. "I do not like loud. It hurts. And bright is bad, too."

"Sensory input giving you a hard time? What about surfaces and textures?"

"Everything soft. Dev made me do clay and it was…ew. I did not like."

Dr. Monroe smiled a little. "It's just a phase, kiddo. I know it sucks, but I don't expect it to last more than a week or two. How do you like your vest?"

Ziva smiled. "It is so good. It is warm and…makes…like…" She stuttered, shook her head, and tightened her grip on the quilt. "_It is safe_," she ground out, face red from the effort.

The doctor stepped back, eyebrows raised. "Well that's a change. Should we put it back on?"

"Uh huh." She held her arms out. Gibbs threaded them through the holes and secured the Velcro strips. She sighed, content. "Thanks, Abba."

He winked and sat back down.

"How about your legs?" Dr. Monroe prodded her quadriceps and patellar tendons. "How's the pain?"

She furrowed her brow. "Bad at where…um…bends? But all over aches so much. When I am done at the gym it is very bad. They have to be up and I need medicine."

Dr. Monroe smiled. "Thanks for telling me. I'll make sure you get something for the pain before you even get back here. We'll try to minimize the post-PT suffering. Can I check those joints now?"

"Yes," she breathed, a little anxious about more touching below the waist. She steadied herself to keep from panicking.

Gibbs sensed her discomfort and grabbed her flailing right hand. "You're ok, Ziver. Deep breath."

She complied, blowing hard. "Ok."

The doctor rolled her hips, bent her knees, and rotated her ankles and toes. "Hm. You're stiff. I want to put you in night splints to keep your ankles supple and your heels from getting bedsores."

Ziva whimpered. "Not _again."_

"They're not like last time—these are soft and won't even come up to your knees. Speaking off, can you bend them?"

"No," Tony said for her. "But they're looser than her ankles. I noticed it when I did her range-of-motion exercises this afternoon."

Dr. Monroe winked. "Well we'll just have to work on that. I'll place the order and we'll get her in 'em before bedtime. Tuckered out, Ziva?"

She blinked heavily. "Yes."

"I'll get them on it fast, then. Rachie will stop by in just a minute to show you guys how they work. Take care, ok? And I'll see you tomorrow."

She nearly collided with Abby in the hallway, who apologized profusely and stomped into the room with wide, sorry green eyes.

"I got stuck in the lab," she wailed. "I had so much evidence to work through and then Major Mass Spec came down with a terrible stomach flu. It was so sad! He was just standing there with his lights all dark." She clicked her tongue. "But enough about work. How do you feel? Timmy said you had a nasty UTI. Ick. Sorry, Zivvie. Hug?"

Ziva held out her arms, smiling.

Abby collapsed into them, then kicked off her boots and crawled up on the bed next to her. "You're so warm and cozy. It's freezing outside."

Ziva gasped when Abby's cold hands curled between her own.

"I told you; it's freezing." She slid her legs under the quilt. "Survival mode. We'll share body heat until I'm no longer hypothermic—which shouldn't be long because you're a little oven. Why do you still have a fever?"

"Dunno," Ziva huffed. "I feel bad."

Abby stroked her curls and clicked her tongue. "I know. I'm sorry you're sick. What are you on for it?"

She pointed to the IV bag hanging over their heads. "That."

"Tetracycline," Tim supplied.

Abby frowned at him and pulled Ziva into a tight hug. "I thought they usually prescribed sulfas for UTIs?"

"No cillins, no sulfas," Tony interjected. "She's allergic."

"Yes," Ziva confirmed smartly. "And I am tired."

"No sleeping until Rachie comes back," Gibbs warned over his book. "I know how cranky you are if they wake you. Stay up and then we'll make sure you get to sleep in tomorrow."

"I have to go Devorah," she protested.

"You will," he confirmed. "But you need to sleep, too."

Her eyes rolled and Abby loosened her hair from the elastic tie. "Why are we waiting up for the nurse?"

Tony sat up and ran a hand over his head. There were bags under his eyes and his hair stood on end. "Ziva's getting some new night splints to protect her ankles and heels. Dr. Monroe wants to put them on tonight."

Ziva looked at Abby sideways. "I do not want. I do not like on me."

"I don't want to see bedsores," Abby quipped. "Do you remember how much you cried? They hurt like hell."

Rachie appeared with two green foot splints. "I heard about your little Minerva-brace trauma. I don't want to see that, either. If I would've known that Amy, she would've gotten a piece of my mind on her way out the door. Can I pull the quilt back, Ziva?"

"Yes," she granted gravely.

Abby vaulted off the bed and Ziva flailed, surprised. "Hey—dizzy!"

"Sorry. Do you want me to do this for you?"

Ziva looked at her then back to Rachie. "Um, please?"

"No problem," the nurse agreed. "You know how these go on?"

Abby had Ziva's right foot set and secured before she'd finished the question. "Yep. These are no problem. And uh oh—you have a little sore on the left side. Where's the witch hazel I sent with Ziva from the seventh floor?"

It was produced, dabbed, dried, and the left splint fastened snugly. Abby helped Ziva turn onto her right side and tucked her in with pillows and her owl. Tony, Tim, and Gibbs stood to leave but she hemmed, hesitant. "I think I'll stay for a little while, guys." She stroked Ziva's left arm around the IV. "You know, just to be sure."

Gibbs leaned down and whispered something in Ziva's ear. She smiled but didn't open her eyes. "Go, Abba," she muttered. "You show tonight so he can…" She drifted off, mumbling unintelligibly.

He kissed her brow, then Abby's. "Both of you get to sleep," he ordered gently, and shoved Tony toward the door. "C'mon, DiNozzo. I need to take some measurements at your new place."

"Boss," he whined. "Can't we do that another time? I'm beat and Pitt plays OSU tonight."

"Nope. Get your ass in the car."

McGee gave Abby an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I helped him chose the grey and red for the home theater," he whispered. "I'm sure he'll love it."

"Me, too," she grinned. "And aren't you the secret agent lately—getting Ziva in to a better PT program, helping Gibbs make Tony his own man-cave." She sighed and put both hands over her heart. "What a superhero."

Tim's face went as scarlet as the paint he chose. "Thanks," he stuttered, ducking his head. "But I should probably get over there and make sure Tony knows how to work the surround-sound. See you tomorrow?"

"I'll be in by nine." She curled up next to Ziva and sighed, sleepy. "You sleepin', Zivvie?"

She hummed. "Abby?"

"Hm?"

There was a long silence. "Do not go, ok? Stay for small?"

"Of course."

Another long silence passed. "Abby?"

"Hm?"

"You are normal."

Abby bit her lips to keep from laughing loud enough to wake the entire floor. "Yeah," she finally sighed. "I suppose I am." She kissed Ziva's hot head and listened to the nurses' shoes squeak down the sanitized hallway.

. . . .

Tony slammed the car door hard enough to make the whole thing sway. "I'm exhausted," he complained. "I really needed to go home and watch the football game. Why are you making me do this now?"

Gibbs got out of his own car and lead him up to the front door. "There's no crying in baseball, DiNozzo. Grab that carpenter's rule and a twenty-five foot measuring tape. But wait, I got something to show you first." He loped down the hall to the third bedroom and swung the door open.

The house was dim—only the kitchen lights were on—so Tony didn't quite put the pieces together. "What?"

"Maybe you oughta check this out." He stood by the door, arms crossed.

Tony peeked around the doorframe. "And?" He groped for a lightswitch. "The hell, Boss? There'd better not be snakes or cockroaches or other creepy-crawly things in here. Why does it smell like paint and bourbon?"

Gibbs flicked the bank of switches to his right and smirked as realization dawned on his senior field agent. Tony's jaw dropped, his eyes widened, and he ran a hand over his hair again, standing all of it up on end.

"Is this…what…who…the _hell_, Boss?"

"Not my idea," he grumbled. "Talk to your girlfriend."

He waved his arm in an arc. "This is _amazing_!"

It was, actually. Tim chose a herringbone pattern of scarlet and grey and hired skilled painters to produce it. A Buckeye decal had been specially-ordered from the university and centered on each wall. The wetbar matched the sidetables, the sectional sofa was black microsuede, and jerseys from the starting lineup of Tony's sophomore year had been autographed and framed. Tony walked in a slow circle, one hand out to brush the furniture.

Tim poked his head in. "The lighting is on dimmers. The TV screen is anti-glare and it has 3-D capabilities. Your DVD library is in that trunk—it opens to become a display case. And the surround sound can be turned off and on in case Ziva isn't interested in listening to you watch _The Mummy_ for the thirty-seventh time."

"I'll have you know that Brendan Frasier is a highly underrated actor. How did you guys do this without me noticing?"

Gibbs cleared his throat. "Ziva. And Ofek was in on it, too. Once I learned he was your contractor I borrowed his guys in the evening to help me blow extra insulation in the walls and put down a thicker carpet pad. I carpeted, by the way. I wanted the sound dampened as much as possible."

Tony looked at the expensive grey berber weave at his feet. "Nice. Where did the weight bench and treadmill come from?"

"I know people," Gibbs deadpanned, and cuffed him on the shoulder. "You like it, huh?"

His eyes grew wet. "Boss, I don't know what to say. I'm pissing and moaning about being tired and you're doing double-duty here and at the Navy Yard? I feel like an ass."

"You are an ass," he confirmed. "But Ziva wanted you to have a space that was only yours. I just helped out a little bit." He slapped Gibbs' shoulder only to be pulled into a rough hug. "You really manned up for her," he praised gruffly. "Keep it up. You make me proud."

Tim smiled at his shoes. "Yeah, I'm with Boss. You've been working really hard lately. There's a premium channel list on the coffee table. Watch your game and relax for the night. Oh, and there's a case of your favorite beer in the mini-fridge. Goodnight."


	22. Rain King

__**What is there left to say up here? Not much, other than I love you. Watch out below, possible *T. Take care of yourselves the way I would if I could do it for you. xo, The Mecha.**

_Don't try to bleed me._

_ 'Cause I been there before and I deserve a little more._

_ I belong in the service of the Queen._

_ -Counting Crows, "Rain King."_

Tony woke Ziva with a sloppy kiss to the cheek. She startled, frowned, and batted him away. "What?" She rasped, still groggy. "It is early."

"It's almost eight," he replied. "You need to get up and get movin' before Devorah and Freddie come for you." He elevated the bed and sat next to her, sliding her across the sheet and into his arms. "And I got the big surprise last night. Thank you. I love it."

She smiled and rolled her face against his chest. "Welcome."

He buried his face in her hair. "How did you do that?" He wondered. "You're dealing with so much, Zi. How did you even _think_ about a project like that?"

"Abba help," she admitted. "He did work. I just say him _do it_. You do everything me. _Everything._ I could not…could not…I love you. I want you happy. I want say thank you but maybe is not enough."

"Well you didn't need to build me a home theater to make me happy. A simple 'thank you' would've done the job. And it's more than enough. I can't wait to have everyone over for a football party. Maybe the Superbowl."

"Ok," she replied simply and shifted herself higher. "I need to eat."

Tony opened an insulated grocery sack and produced a bowl of scrambled eggs, still steaming from the deli. "Here. Eat. I have toast and fruit, too. Want some juice?"

She fumbled with her fork. "Water?"

He rang for Claudia, who came with a fresh pitcher, cup, and straw. "Morning," she chimed. "Eat and then we'll do our routine."

Ziva tried not to make a face. Their _routine_ was a catheter change, a sponge bath, and a suppository. She just nodded and took a delicate bite of toast, careful to not spread crumbs around.

Tony sensed her discomfort. "Remember what I said," he reminded gently. "No shame."

She nodded again, eyes on her plate. There was a strange sensation behind her eyes, a fullness that hadn't been there when she'd gone to sleep. It felt like her head had been stuffed with cotton overnight. She chalked it up to the UTI and stabbed a piece of apple.

Devorah stormed in, smiling. "Hey, sabra. Heard you're headed for a stroll in the park this morning."

Ziva looked at Tony with her fork in her mouth and surprise on her face. "What?"

"The treadmill," he supplied to jar her memory. "You're headed for the treadmill at ten. Remember?"

She swallowed and nodded, chastising herself internally for forgetting. "Yes. Tim say to Dr. Monroe that I need walk."

Dev pulled her tablet computer from the charging dock. "I have a few videos to show you so you're not going in blind. Here."

She put it down next to Ziva's plate so she could watch how the gain-training therapy worked. Ziva finished her eggs and toast while she learned how the harness fit, how the robotic exoskeleton would move her legs, how the computer would read her muscle movement and strength and adjust accordingly to maximize the therapeutic benefits. She watched with a critical eye and felt a flutter of anxiety when she saw how she'd be dangled a few inches off the treadmill while they attached everything.

Having had enough, she lifted her head and pushed her bowl away. "Done. Now go ready while I do routine."

Tony kissed her hair. "You don't want me to stay?"

Her hands tightened on the edge of the rolling table. "Maybe," she conceded. "But not Devorah." She ducked her head. "Ok?"

Dev smiled. "No problem, Ziv. I'll check in with some colleagues and come back in an hour."

. . . .

Ziva didn't expect Gibbs, Tim, and Abby to come crashing through the gym doors at ten o'clock in the morning on a weekday, but they did. She'd just been parked next to the treadmill—it was bigger than she expected—so that Devorah could show her the harness and strap her in. She jumped when Abby thrust a digital video camera in front of her. Tony stroked her hair knowingly.

"I can't let this go uncommemorated!" She chirped. "It's the _first time_. How awful would it be if we weren't here to watch?"

Ziva smiled uncomfortably and reached for Gibbs' hand. "Hi," she said softly.

He bent and kissed her temple. "Hi. Relax."

She nodded and leaned forward at Devorah's instruction so the harness could be slipped behind her and buckled around her middle.

Gibbs smirked. "You goin for a walk, Ziver, or jumping out of an airplane?" She took yoga breaths and gave him another tiny smile.

Devorah told Tony to push Ziva's chair right up under the frame, then held her hand while Freddie attached the pulley to the yoke and lifted her out of the wheelchair. She stifled a gasp when the chair was taken away and the robot lowered behind her.

Abby had the camera rolling. "Wow, Zivvie, I forgot how long your legs were. You're pretty gangly for a small person."

Ziva swallowed and dropped her head so she could watch Freddie tighten the straps around her right ankle, calf and thigh. Devorah was behind her, making adjustments to the yoke above her head. They lifted her again to add a strap to the instep of her sneaker, but she jolted and grabbed the shoulder straps of her harness. The white aluminum uprights of the gait-trainer were closing in on her. She grunted and succumbed to the panic that had been brewing for several minutes.

"Down!" She demanded. "I want down!"

Devorah took her hands from her shoulders and placed them on the parallel safety bars. "Hold here, Ziv. You're fine. Take a deep breath and look around."

Freddie backed off, hands out. "I'm not touching you. Nothing is touching you, but I need to finish your left leg. Can you let me?"

She looked down. Her toes were three inches from the floor. Her new running shoes looked obscenely white in her greying vision. "Ok," she conceded. Maybe she'd feel better once she was moving.

Tony smiled to hide his concern. "You're ok, sweet cheeks. Wait till you're walking. I'm sure you'll love it."

Freddie adjusted a strap above her left knee and Ziva lost her battle. "Lemme out!" She cried sharply, voice high and fretful. "Lemme out! _Outoutoutoutoutout!_"

Devorah lowered Ziva's feet to the floor and motioned for the wheelchair but Tony just shook his head and ducked beneath the rails to take her in his arms. "It's ok," he promised softly. She panted, red-faced, and didn't appear to hear him. Dev unhooked the harness from the yoke, trusting Tony to scoop Ziva into his arms. He did, and whispered quietly in her ear that she was safe, that no one was trying to hurt her. She sobbed, afraid and sad, and clutched his neck.

"To the mats," Gibbs directed, pointing to a stack of floor mats in the corner. "Calm her down." Abby and Tim followed but he waved them back. "She needs space. Give her ten."

Abby wrung her hands and fought back tears of her own. Tim was wide-eyed, Adam's apple bobbing with nervous apologies. "I'm so sorry, Boss. I didn't think she would have a panic attack. She's been doing so well, even with the infection." He shook his head.

"Not your fault," Gibbs said tersely. "It was a risk. We took it, and now we know not to do it again."

"For a while, anyway," Devorah amplified. "Poor sabra. I'm calling Petra down to talk with her."

Tony sat on the mats with Ziva still in his arms. She'd gone from fearful to hysterical in seconds, shaking with the weight of her sobs and hiding her face in his shirt. He shushed, rocked, and hummed an old song under his breath, but it didn't seem to matter—she cried on, wailing in his arms like a child. He settled back against the wall, determined to wait her out.

Dr. Miller crouched on the mat in front of him. She sqeezed his shoulder, clucked her tongue, and stroked Ziva's wet cheek with a soft finger. "I'm so sorry, honey," she murmured maternally. "I am so sorry. Can you take a deep breath for me?"

Ziva cried on, oblivious, until a high, thin yelp was forced from her throat and she jerked in Tony's arms. Her head knocked against his chest, her elbows locked, and her wrists contracted hard enough that she slipped from his grasp and thumped to the mats below.

Devorah rushed over to position her on her side. "Wow," she said softly. "Big seizure this time." She rubbed Ziva's back and made soft comfort sounds.

Tony held his hands out, helpless. "I couldn't hold her," he said ineffectively, green eyes wide and stormy. "I couldn't hold her."

Tim and Abby knelt at the edge of the mat and Gibbs put a hand on Tony's shoulder. Tension thrummed beneath his palm. "You did your best, DiNozzo," he said firmly. "That's all anyone asks. Is she having a grand mal seizure?"

Dev nodded, hand still on Ziva's back. "We call them tonic-clonic seizures now. Freddie is paging Dr. Monroe. She'll probably be transferred back to Critical Care for a few days. There's an MRI and and EEG in her immediate future."

Dr. Monroe arrived as soon as the convulsions stopped. She joined the crowd on the mat, taking Ziva's pulse with one hand and smoothing her hair with the other.

"You're ok," she cooed, and turned to the frightened faces around her. "She's postictal now. She'll probably sleep for the rest of the day. She might wake up confused or combative so it might be a good idea for someone to stay, even if she's unconscious. The rest of you can go home. This day is a wash."

Abby had tears in her eyes. She grabbed McGee's hand with one of her own and reached for Gibbs with the other. "Call us," she muttered. "Ok? Tell us what you need. Or what she needs."

Gibbs pulled her into a tight hug. "Thanks, Abbs. You two head out—and not to work. Go get a pizza and watch TV. Take care of yourselves."

Tony fished his house key out of his pocket. "Go use the new theater you build, Tim." No _Probie_, no _Mc-Anything, _just a sheepish shrug and permission to enter his home as family.

McGee took the proffered key. "Thanks, Tony. Keep us informed."

They left and Ziva stirred, crying out in confusion. Her eyes roved the room, blank and watery. Gibbs took her hand; Tony cupped her cheek. She thrashed weakly then drifted off in twilight sleep.

Two aides appeared with a gurney between them. They reached simultaneously for Ziva and Gibbs knocked their hands away. "I'll do it," he said gruffly, already lifting her onto the thin mattress. He drew the sheet up and brushed an errant curl off her cheek.

Dr. Monroe swallowed reflexively. "I'm going to write orders for an EEG. The tech should be around to hook her up in an hour or less. We'll run a longer test this time to see if we can catch any activity, but after an event that large it might be difficult. It'll probably take a third run in the future to determine where these seizures are happening."

"What just happened?" Tony demanded feebly. "She's never had a tonic-clonic _anything_ before."

"I'll meet you upstairs and we'll talk," she promised. "Let me get the order in as quickly as I can."

Gibbs lead Tony to the elevator, where he jabbed the _up_ button and turned back to his Senior Field Agent. "This wasn't your fault," he fairly ordered.

"I was just holding her," he fumbled, speaking more to himself than Gibbs. "I thought she would calm down. You've told me before that she calms down if you put her in a bear hug. Why didn't she just _calm down_, Boss?"

"Circuit overload. Breaker tripped. I want to know why she panicked in the first place. When did the doc say she could see a therapist?"

Tony shrugged. "I forget." He stared blankly at the inside of the elevator, wishing Gibbs would jam the stop button so he could break down and cry without prying eyes. He didn't—this wasn't _his_ elevator after all—and they emerged onto the seventh floor to hear Anya on the phone asking to have Ziva's belongings packed and brought up. She hung up and sighed.

"Heard we're getting a special guest," she intoned. "Rough morning?"

"Ziva had a tonic-clonic seizure."

Anya made a face. "Oy, poor thing. That can be a big obstacle. She'll be back in room 704. I'll grab a coffee and a soda and meet you there."

Ziva didn't arrive for another ten minutes and Gibbs nearly jumped down the aides' throats when they transferred her from the gurney to the waiting bed. "The hell were you?" He demanded, fists clenched, blue eyes dark as ice.

Anya handed him a coffee. "They stopped to get a quick blood draw and weight check. She'd under a hundred pounds. What are they feeding her down there?"

"She's eating like crazy," Tony interjected. "What the hell?"

"Then it isn't food related. Dr. Monroe will probably call an endocrinologist to run some blood work. It might be chemical."

Gibb crossed his arms. "Is it because her muscles are breaking down? She was really strong."

"And still is," Anya warned. "I'm thinking there's a pituitary dysfunction. It's not as strange as you think—her head got rattled pretty hard. It can be treated with medication once they figure out where the deficiencies are."

Dr. Monroe ushered Elizabeth the EEG technician into the room and had her start immediately attaching electrodes to Ziva's head. She smiled and waved before combing through Ziva's hair, commenting softly on how thick and heavy it was.

"I'm worried," the doctor blurted. "I did not expect breakthrough seizure so soon after switching medications. We'll keep her on the EEG for a few hours to see if anything shows up. I'm also running blood tests for a hormonal imbalance—Ziva weighs ninety-nine pounds. I know she's petite but that's dangerous for her height and frame. We don't keep an endocrinologist on-call so I've texted a friend at Fairfax. He should be calling me tonight."

"Why did she have that kind of seizure?" Tony asked harshly. "She hasn't so much as faded out on us in days and suddenly she's convulsing like a junkie in my arms. I dropped her, Doc. _Dropped_ her."

She put a hand on his back. "I know that was scary for you but she probably didn't get hurt. I'll check her out to be sure, though. Would it make you feel better to help me do that?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "When will she wake up?"

Dr. Monroe shrugged. "It could be hours. That was a long event so I'm guessing she'll sleep for at least the day, maybe even into tomorrow. It takes time to recover normal activity after a tonic-clonic seizure. Even after she wakes up she could be groggy or confused for a while."

Gibbs nodded. "You think it caused more brain damage?"

"No, but I'm beginning to suspect she has permanent post-traumatic epilepsy. Anticonvulsants might be a long-term therapy for her." She gave them a small smile. "Many patients who have grand-scale neurological events like the one she experienced never have one again. Let that be a comfort to you, but don't drop your guard until after I read the test results. Tony, want to help check her over now?"

He dropped his arms from where, like Gibbs, they'd folded across his chest. "Yeah," he sighed. "What should I do?"

"Let's look for bruises or abrasions. Start with her ankles and work your way up."

He busied himself as the doctor did, brushing his hands down Ziva's wasted legs, squinting at any flaw in her skin like it was personally offending him. He shifted the waistband of her yoga pants and found a brush burn on her hip the size of his thumb.

Anya dabbed it with topical cream and stuck on a bandage. "You didn't hurt her," she said quietly.

"I dropped her," he repeated, eyes on Ziva's protruding ribs. He danced his fingers over her side and arm. "I transferred her yesterday from the bed to the chair and she deliberately said _do not drop me_ and then today I did."

"You would've hurt her worse if you'd hung on. I've seen patients with muscles tears from being restrained during major seizures. You did the right thing."

"By dropping her," he sighed, and shook his head.

Gibbs jumped in. "Enough, DiNozzo. She's ok."

"She will be," Dr. Monroe assured them. "Which one of you is staying?"

Both men jabbed their thumbs at their chests.

"By _which one_ I meant you, Gibbs. I'd put good money on Ziva wanting her Abba when she wakes up. Tony—take a break. Go home with your friends. Watch TV or go for a run or something. Stress can kill a person and you're about to keel over."

He nodded at the floor. "Yeah, maybe I will. You think she's going to be mad at me for dropping her?"

"She won't remember it. Go home."

He was only vaguely comforted. "Ok. Need anything, Boss?"

"Need you to stop beating yourself up. Go home. Eat lunch with Abbs and McGee. I'll call you later."

Tony nodded again and bent low over Ziva, who slept on undisturbed. He kissed her hair and whispered in her ear for a long time, murmuring apologies, promises, and a soft hope for their future together. Without a word to Gibbs he kissed her again, brushed his cheek across her ear, and left.

. . . .

Tim and Abby were in Tony's man-cave, eating pizza and listlessly watching _The Mummy_ in his honor. He waved and headed back to the master bath; Ofek was there, tearing out the old tub and scraping old caulking in preparation for the new accessible soaking tub.

"Hey, Brother," he greeted with sad green eyes. "I heard Ziva is unwell."

"Seizure," Tony mustered. "A bad one. She's having tests tonight."

"You in the mood to help me?"

He shrugged half-heartedly. "What do you need?"

Ofek just shook his head. "No, you need to go watch your film. Have some pizza. Save me a slice."

"It's not kosher," he warned.

Ofek shrugged. "Don't tell my wife."

Abby slid over to make room for him on the sectional, then scooted closer and laid her head on his shoulder. Her eyes were as red as his felt. The pizza was cold and congealing on the table. Only one slice was missing.

"You ok?" She asked softly. Tim glanced at her then returned his eyes to the TV screen.

"I'm sad," he admitted. "I feel like I failed. I feel like she's never going to get better."

"Me, too," she agreed. Her arm burrowed between his back and the cushions.

"Do you think this is it, McGee?" Tony asked absently. "Do you think this is as good as it's going to get for Ziva?"

Tim sat back, thinking. "No, Tony. I don't believe this _is_ as good as it gets. I think the brain injuries are more of a hindrance than we thought, but with the proper medication and therapies she can come home and live a normal life."

"She wants that," he offered quietly. "She wants normalcy. Yesterday Ofek's wife visited and Ziva said two things after she left: that Adi's wheelchair was fast, and that she was normal."

"That was good for her to see. Did they get along?"

"Yeah, according to Zi. She really seemed to like her."

"Good. Ziva needs a friend that understands what she's going through—to some degree, at least."

Tony looked around at his home theater then craned his neck to look up and down the hallway. "Maybe I should put this all on hold."

McGee looked up having half-heard him. "Hold what?"

"This whole remodeling project. I think it's going to be awhile before Ziva comes home. She needs to get to rehab first. Dr. Monroe sent her back to the critical care unit—how many weeks did that seizure set her back?"

Tim spoke carefully. "We don't know. I wouldn't think in weeks—I'd think in days. I'm sure Dr. Monroe will iron it all out and Ziva will be back on the transitional floor within forty-eight hours."

Abby chucked Tony's shoulder, her face brightened a bit with a small smile. "The minute you stop is the minute they send her home. You want her released to a half-finished house?"

"No," he admitted. "I don't. Fine, I'll keep going. I just really hope she's ok. I…" He paused to swallow back tears. "I don't care if she ever walks. I just want her to be happy and not in pain."

Abby began to cry all over again. "I don't know about walking, but I do know that Ziva will never do less than her best. She'll never cop out or make excuses. I'm sure she'll come home soon enough, and when she does, she'll be independent and totally, totally in love with you."

He touched his forehead to hers and shifted when he felt McGee put a hand on his shoulder. "You guys think we can do this?"

Abby drew a tearful breath. "Yes, I do."

Tim's voice was more confident. "I'm certain of it. Hang in with her, Tony, and we will, too."

. . . .

It was growing dark when Ziva finally began to stir. Gibbs leaned closer to the bed. "Ziver?" He called softly.

She frowned, eyes closed.

He brushed a knuckle down her cheek. "Sweetheart, open your eyes."

Her frown deepened but she blinked up at him, squinting in the shadows. "Hm?"

"Can I turn a light on?"

She grunted and closed her eyes again, lashes heavy with tears.

He took it to mean _yes_ and switched on the wall sconces. Her quilt had been brought up from the sixth floor. It was folded on the windowsill in a neat rectangle. Gibbs shook it out, spread it over her, and tucked it tightly around her feet and legs.

"Better?"

She grunted again, eyes still closed.

Worry gnawed at his gut. "Talk to me, Ziver. Tell me how you feel."

She blinked at him, blank and bewildered. Her hands teased the binding of the blanket.

"David," he growled. "Tell me _right now_ if you're ok."

ZIva shrank away from him, fearful, and opened her mouth. "I..." she stuttered. "I…Oh!" She closed her mouth with an audible _snap_ and put a trembling hand to her brow, whimpering wordlessly.

Anya slipped and Gibbs nearly accosted her. "She can't talk," he snapped. "What the hell happened?"

She checked the EEG readout. "She's still postictal—not all the pistons are firing." Her blue eyes narrowed in her squarish face. "She's scared. Stop acting like damn fool trigger-happy cowboy and comfort her."

Ziva was panting a little, watching the two of them with wide dark eyes. She groaned again when he put his hand on her arm.

"It's ok," he soothed. "It's ok. I didn't mean to scare you, but I got scared myself when you couldn't talk to me." He faltered for a minute with a dozen useless, open-ended questions in his mouth. They died on his tongue when she swallowed with a click and looked away. He calmed himself with a mental slap to the head. "Abba's here," he murmured, bending to put his mouth to her ear. "Abba's here. You're safe."

Ziva's breath hitched. Anya took her blood pressure and raised an eyebrow at him. "You want to do the usual? I'll help with the wires."

Gibbs nodded, feeling dumb and clumsy as he climbed up onto the bed—they were set higher up here, as patients generally needed more physician intervention—and tugged Ziva into his lap. She was lighter than before, boneless and spent after the difficult day.

Anya adjusted the EEG wires and tucked her curls behind her ear. "There," she said motherly. "All set. Rest with your Abba while we wait for Dr. Monroe to come up and do a neuro exam. You want a coffee, Gibbs?"

"No," he refused gently, and gave her a small smile of apology. "Thanks for knowing what to do."

She winked. "No problem, leatherneck. Take good care of my girl."

A lump grew in his throat. He cleared it away, coughing roughly. "Always," he vowed lowly. "Always."

Dr. Monroe tiptoed in an hour later, a thin smile on her face. She looked at the EEG readout, then the monitors, then Gibbs. "She's still coming around. Go home, Gibbs. Get some real sleep."

He shrugged. "Not yet." He rocked a little, though Ziva remained asleep. "She woke up earlier. Couldn't talk."

She nodded. "It means the seizure started in the language center of her brain."

"Are we back to Square One, Doc? Are we going to have to teach her all over again how to speak?"

"No," she replied quietly. "It's just a phase. By tomorrow she should be back to her normal self. We'll finish the EEG in another hour and I bet she'll be lucid by then."

"I'll stay for that," he said softly. "Is she gonna have these seizures for the rest of her life?"

Dr. Monroe shrugged. "Hard to say. I can't deny it as of now. She needs time and the right medication. There are plenty of ways to cope if it is a permanent condition. "

"What about her weight loss? Did your friend call from Fairfax?"

"Yes. I sent some of Ziva's blood to his lab for a work-up. We'll have the results in a week. We'll keep the NG tube in until we get her on the proper medication for it."

Gibbs sighed. "More meds."

"She won't be on all them forever," the doctor guaranteed. "Some—maybe. Not all."

He tightened his grip; Ziva was dead weight, sleeping deeply and quietly. "She had a panic attack before the seizure. Did you know that?"

"I did. I would like to increase the Lorazepam again. I think her central nervous system is under a tremendous amount of stress—it will help combat any more psycho-neurological events."

They fell silent for a long time. He watched Ziva sleep; Dr. Monroe watched the monitors. "What's she gonna be like, Doc?" He asked finally, his hold on her grown possessive. "If you new how capable she was before—strong, fast, smart, intense—you'd never be all right with this."

She nodded, thinking. "I heard something similar from your colleague. He wasn't happy with how slowly we're approaching her rehabilitation. She's been so willing and coherent lately that I thought he was right. It seems we had conflicting gut instincts—he wanted more, I wanted to stay the course. I don't want to say that I was right, Gibbs."

He shrugged and stiffened when Ziva protested with a soft moan. "You were. How much longer do you think she'll be here?"

"In the CCU? Only a few days."

"I mean _not at home_, Doc."

She narrowed her eyes, thinking. "If we can get her medications right—weight up, seizures controlled—perhaps another five to six weeks. Less if everything goes well. I'll agree send her home early if you get approved with the insurance company for daily home care provided by a full-time nurse."

Gibbs' eyebrows went up at that. "So three weeks? Four? If we get someone at home to care for her on a daily basis."

Dr. Monroe pressed her lips together and nodded curtly. "_If_ she is ready. Seizure free for a week, weight up over one-oh-three, and through wheelchair clinic so she has independent mobility and the ability to transfer into bed or the car _by herself_."

"That's it? When can she start?" He smirked, his gut quiet for the first time all day.

"When she's awake and calm. We'll try a new anticonvulsant and adjust the Lorazepam to compensate." She paused to study Ziva's sleeping face. "She needs more mental health care than I can give her. Dr. Juliana Hess will be in tomorrow to do an intake session. She'll have a session every other day for two weeks, then once a week via rehab for the foreseeable future. I got approval from the insurance company this morning. I was on my way down to tell you when Devorah paged me."

He gave her a stern look, unimpressed. "Let's see if she can talk by then."

"You think she won't find a way to communicate? You're a fool. Why are you so adamantly opposed to psychological care for her?"

"Because she doesn't need to relive what every bastard in the world has ever done to her!" His voice grew louder without his consent. "I don't need her thinking about how vulnerable she is, how defenseless—"

Dr. Monroe interrupted him with a hand on his arm. "_She _doesn't need that, or _you_ don't?"

He hung his head, mouth resting on Ziva's hair, and breathed in the scent of the adhesive that held the sensors to her scalp.

"She needs to learn to live in the world, Gibbs. She's done it before, even having survived trauma and captivity and cruelty. Why do you think she would give up because of something as trivial as a wheelchair?"

Tears burned behind his eyes. "Her abilities as a soldier have defined her since she was big enough to hold an M-16. We're talking her _whole life_, Doc, from grammar school until four weeks ago when that bastard smashed her skull with a pipe."

The doctor only fixed him with a knowing look. "This is a fresh start. Stop undermining her strength and ability to adapt. Now I'm going to call the tech and have these electrodes removed. She did fine—no more seizures tonight. You should go home after that and get some rest. Come back tomorrow when she's awake and ready to have a discussion about her regimen."

Gibbs put his mouth again on Ziva's hair and only lifted it again when the on-call tech turned her face into his shoulder and peeled two sensors off the back of her head. Ziva flinched but, thankfully, didn't wake. He was handed a copy of the results when the technician finished, which he threw on the table with her tablet, phone, and vest.

He shifted off the bed without rousing her. "Goodnight, my girl," he uttered roughly. "Sleep well. Abba loves you." He tucked the owl beneath her arm and kissed her cheek, then slipped out the door without turning off the lights.

. . . .

Gibbs' phone was ringing insistently somewhere in the blackness. The blanket was tangled around his waist. His t-shirt was trying to strangle him. Shoving off the couch, he groped for his phone only to come away with empty air. The ringing stopped, only to start again. He followed the sound to the entry table, where the tiny LED screen was lit with a Walter Reed extension. He cursed heartily and flipped it open.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

"Abba they won' not let me use my phone."

He smiled, all heaviness leaving his heart. "No, huh? Bummer. Who'd you have to strangle to let you call, Ziver?"

"No, I just ask. _Asked_. Rita say ok."

"Good. How are ya?"

"Ok. Headache." He heard her swallow. "Um, Abba, I had a bad day."

"You did," he agreed carefully. "How do you feel now?" There was a pause and he realized that she was crying. "Ziver? Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

She sniffled. "I do not like how feel."

"I don't either," he said softly. "I don't like when you're sad or hurting. Did you tell Rita?"

"She say she will get something for me." She sniffled again and there was a muffled shifting of bedclothes. "Can you come?" She blurted, sounding young and scared. "Please?"

He was already pulling on jeans and his red hooded USMC sweatshirt. "I'm on my way, Ziver. Don't fall apart; keep talking to me."

Her tears were drying. "About?"

"About your favorite color or animal or weapon—whatever. Tell me a story. Sing me a song."

She sang him a song in Hebrew, one she haltingly professed was from her childhood. He recognized a few words—sons and daughters, the Jewish Sabbath, guardians of their faith. She kept impressive pitch for being intubated and then had a tonsillectomy not terribly long ago. He strode into her room as she was finishing, pulling the phone from her hand and ending the call.

She burst into tears again. "I feel bad."

"You had a helluva seizure this morning," he replied gently, taking her in his arms yet again. "You might feel crappy for another few hours. Do you remember that?"

She made a noncommittal noise. "I remember the…thing. White thing with straps. For walking."

"The gait-trainer. Yeah, you freaked out. Want to tell me why?"

Ziva pressed her lips together and looked down at the quilt in her lap. "It was bad, Abba."

"No joke, David. Do you remember having a panic attack?"

She thought hard, dark brows furrowed. "Yes."

He kissed her brow. "Why were you so afraid?"

She was silent for a long time, finding the right words. "In camp," she began, and his heart sank. "They used to hang up. They would…this." She pressed her wrist together in an approximation of handcuffs. "And then hang up. I could not reach. No, a little…toes. I would be there for long, alone. And it hurt so much. But then dark and they would come." Her voice dropped, broken. "They take off clothes and turn so I look…look wall and they would…make me…with them. It _hurt_, Abba. It _hurt so much_. There was bleed and I felt so shame. I wanted to die."

He'd always suspected that Saleem and his men had raped her. He read the reports; they were thorough for having been taken in a field hospital. It was only a miracle that she tested negative for pregnancy, HIV, and sexually-transmitted infections, though she never admitted the violence visited upon her in that miserable East African summer.

Gibbs kissed her brow again, then the crown of her head. "You're safe now, Ziver. You're safe. Abba is here now. No one can hurt you."

She cried a little longer but exhaustion and the Percocet was carrying her away. The creases in her brow smoothed out, her shoulders sagged, and her sobs tapered off to quiet snuffles.

"You're ok," Gibbs muttered again. "You're ok." She blinked up at him and smiled, and for the first time ever Gibbs believed his own words.

"You're ok," he promised again, eyes wet. "Abba is here. You're ok."


	23. Throw Me a Rope

**I'm sorry this one takes so long, my friends. Truth is, it's just hard. A hard story to scaffold, a hard story to write, and a hard story to revise and proofread. I want it to be perfect before I post, and I realize that may not be reasonable. So here it is in all its imperfect glory. Watch out below-some NSFW language. Take care of yourselves. Big love and sunrise and sunrise, The Mecha.**_  
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_I want you between me and the feeling I get_

_when I miss you._

_-KT Tunstall, "Throw me a Rope._

Tony had that nightmare before; the one when Ziva was whole and strong and _furious_ with the suspected murderer of a young Marine. They'd chased him down to the riverfront, or the warehouse district, or the dead cornfields of Western Virginia. There was a gunfight, a knife fight, fists and boots and bruises, Ziva falling and falling. And she'd spoken to him through bloody teeth as he crouched over her. _Do not let me go_, she'd whispered. _Please, Tony_. _Do not let me go_.

There were no medics, no blue IV caps in the grass, no wail of sirens. He'd just picked her up in his arms and carried her out, balancing to wipe her bleeding mouth on his sleeve. He carried her through the streets, the bullpen, down the hallway of his condo building. He carried her to the car. To the hospital, to the shore, to the view from the freeway overpass.

She'd gotten heavy, before. He'd wake with his arms cramped, his hands and neck aching. In daylight he found a chiropractor, then a massage therapist. Then he found _her_. She'd fallen, all right, fallen right down under the ailanthus. But Tony did what he'd always done; reached down, scooped her up, and carried her out in his arms. But strangely, she wasn't heavy that time. She was just Ziva, fine-boned and smiling coyly into his face. Yes, she was pale and a little stiff, but she put her hand on his cheek and said, _Just be careful. I know you will not let go._

Tony woke to daylight and drank his coffee in front of the television, needing time away from the smell of disinfectant and bluish fluorescent lights. The morning news was as bleak as usual, but the forecast called for clearing skies as the day went on. He and a few of Ofek's workers would move some furniture into the new house.

He jolted when the phone rang. "DiNozzo."

"You need to be here at three," Gibbs grunted into the other end. "Doc called a team meeting after she gets Ziver's MRI results."

"Copy, Boss." He swallowed nervously. "She doing ok?"

"Wanna talk to her?"

Tony swore he heard a smirk in his voice. "Sure," he agreed uneasily.

There were muffled sounds—Gibbs speaking low and gentle, the shuffling of blankets, a quiet warning from Justine not to pull the IV line. Then Ziva was there, speaking to him as if he was in her room. Or better—that she was in his.

"Hi, Tony." Her voice was calm and soft.

His heart melted. "Hey, baby, how are you?"

"I am fine," she lied. She'd confessed to Gibbs and Justine that her head was throbbing, so they promised a quiet morning and a long nap. "Are you ok?"

He smiled. Leave it to her to ask _him_ that question. "I am," he said slowly. "But you really scared me yesterday. What happened that made you so terrified?"

She sighed into the phone. "Ask Abba, ok? He can say you. I am sorry, Tony. I did not mean scare you."

"Zi, it's ok. I'm sorry you had such a terrible experience. I know you really wanted to try that gait-training therapy. Are they changing your medication this morning?"

There was a long pause while she organized her words. "They are not changing, they are going up and down with the Topamax and the other. Dr. Monroe thinks it was not…ball-ist."

"Balanced?"

He could hear a small smile in her voice. "Yes, that."

"What's the plan for the day, sweet cheeks? You back to the grindstone or taking it easy?"

"I am in bed," she mourned. "I am…tired but I have to go for a test."

He nodded, though she couldn't see him, and suspected it would be a day before she bounced back. "Did you eat?"

There was another pause, this one shorter. "I do not…want. I…I feel bad, Tony. Small bad, but…"

"I thought you might. Make sure you drink your juices today. Want me to bring more tea?"

Ziva's voice brightened. "You not busy?"

"I was going to move some stuff into our new house," he admitted. "But if you want me to come, I will."

"No, Abba is here." she said, light but firm. "I am ok, but you need to do that. Take pitchers. No, _pictures_. I want to see it done."

"Of course, m'lady. Should I have the maid polish your silver?"

She bubbled with quiet laughter. "I have to go," she said. "Tests."

"Give me back to Boss. I love you."

"Love you too."

Gibbs was curt. "Give me a minute, DiNozzo."

It sounded like Ziva was being packed off for the MRI; there were instructions about holding still and then Gibbs' quiet reassurances that he would be there when she came back.

"Ziver's going for her imaging now," he said without apology. "She's tired today. I got called in a oh-three hundred and neither of us slept too much after that."

Tony sighed. "She told me to ask you about what happened yesterday."

"She had a flashback—Somalia. Those bastards hung her up, stripped her, and gang-raped her. Dangling over the treadmill set her off. She said she was ashamed." He paused to take a breath. "Said she wanted to die."

Tony's mouth was dry. "Yeah. Told me the same thing back when... She's ok though, right? I mean, she's not going to—"

"No. She's fine. Woke up and wanted to talk to you. Be here at three. I'm glad those fuckers are dead, Tony."

"Me, too. Thanks, Boss." he replied, and meant it. "I don't know what I would do—"

"Me either," Gibbs snorted, smirking again, and hung up.

. . . .

Ziva decided right away that Dr. Hess was all right. She wasn't pushy or too friendly or falsely sympathetic. She just sat down in the recliner next to the bed, introduced herself with a smile, and said, _I heard you had a whopping panic attack yesterday_ like she was discussing the validity of a political pundit.

Ziva nodded. "Yes."

"You're not going to volunteer any info, are you?" She smirked—shades of Gibbs.

"Not much," she admitted shyly.

Unexpectedly, the therapist's forthright tone faded. "Still ashamed, huh?"

She nodded, eyes down. "It is hard."

"I know. You've been dealt a pretty crappy hand. Can we talk for a minute about your goals?"

Ziva frowned and looked up. "Goals?"

"What do you want?"

"Want?" She felt dull, parroting the doctor like a child, but she didn't know what the questions meant.

Dr. Hess leaned on the mattress, arms crossed. "You're here, at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, having sustained a traumatic brain injury and a high spinal cord injury. You're barely verbal, hardly mobile, and at the mercy of medical staff and your family for even basic necessities. You have to want _something, _Ziva."

She gaped, rendered wordless by the therapist's candid assessment of her condition. "Um," she started delicately. "I want to go home. I want," she hesitated, looking up for approval. "I want _normal_."

Hess smiled kindly. "Ok. Define that for me."

Ziva blinked, still feeling slow and fatigued. "Normal is…home. It is doing things with Tony and my…family."

Notes were scratched on an old-fashioned legal pad. "What kind of things?"

"Cooking. Eating. Just…hanging. Maybe at a park." She flinched at her own word choice. _Hanging_ made her twitch a little. _Stupid_, she scolded internally.

"So spending time with the people you love, doing ordinary recreational things. What else?"

"Um, more rehab. Dr. Monroe said I go every day."

Dr. Hess nodded, scratching more notes. "So you goal is to go home and then do outpatient rehab. What are your strengths, Ziva?"

She blinked, confused. "I do not have…anymore."

It was the doctor's turn to be confused. "Your injury didn't erase your personality. In what areas do you excel?"

Ziva just shook her head, face blank. "I do not know."

Hess shifted her language, sensing some comprehension issues. "What are you good at?"

She shook her head again "Nothing," she admitted slowly. "I am not as big as I used…I do not know what to do." She turned a hardened gaze on the doctor and suppressed a wince when her head throbbed harder. "I will figure out. I will learn. I will not give up."

Dr. Hess nodded, eyes wide. "Ok. I can help you with that, if you'd like. And I like how positive you are. Can we talk about what happened yesterday?"

"No."

"Ok, so I'm going to tell you what I know. Tell me if I'm right or wrong."

She gave the doctor a sideways look. "Fine."

"You were getting harnessed up for gait-training therapy. It involves a complex system of yoking and robotics, and I've been told you don't like to be restrained. How am I doing so far?"

"Good."

"So you're struggling with all the buckles and the robot and dangling in midair like a marionette, and you just lose it—Dr. Monroe said you cried and screamed like someone was hurting you."

Ziva flushed red. "Yes."

"So Tony hauls you out, but you're so gone by that point that there's no going back. Your brain misfired and you had a tonic-clonic seizure in his arms."

"Yes."

Dr. Hess sat up straight. "Horrible things have happened to you, and I'm not talking about your injury. You were either preparing yourself for an assault or trying to prevent one."

She nodded. Tears streaked down her cheeks. "I could not get away."

"I'm sorry you were so terrified. Can you tell me what happened?"

She gulped air and calmed herself. "I used to be Mossad. I was captured in Africa. The men were cruel. They hurt me."

"Rape is a common weapon in war zones."

Ziva pressed her palm to her mouth, mashing her lips against her teeth. She was angry at herself for being so transparent, but yes, they'd raped her. All of them, and sometimes all at one time. Disgust and shame washed over her and she gagged, tasting blood and bile. Dr. Hess hauled her up off the pillows and pressed her head down between her knees. Ziva lolled forward, gasping as her vision greyed. Her head throbbed even harder. She wished suddenly and helplessly for her mother, then for Gibbs and Tony.

"You're ok," the doctor was saying softly once the dullness faded. "You're ok, Ziva. Take your time."

She laid like that for a long time, doubled over at the waist, arms sagging next to her legs. She thought vaguely of a puppet show she'd seen once with a very young Tali in Yarkon Park. They'd walked around the backdrop on their way home and seen the characters limp on their wires, piles of useless limbs on the slate walkway. But Tali was dead. Yarkon Park's footpaths were bumpy and crooked. How would she navigate them, now? But she pushed away thoughts of the aviary and olive trees and gathered her courage. She slid her forearms beneath her chest, lifted her head, and met her therapist's concerned blue gaze.

"Ok," she said, sucking back tears. "I am ok. Help me back, please?"

Dr. Hess removed her hand from Ziva's shoulder and shoved her gracelessly against the pillows. "Better now? Still nauseous or faint?"

"No. I am ok. I am…sorry. I do not usually do...like _that_. It is silly and…and _useless_."

"I would agree," she said warily. "But these things are happening because your emotions are out of control. Dr. Miller and Dr. Monroe said you have a hard time with stimuli—bright lights, loud noises—and I think it's because you're system is so taxed. Would you be open to learning some coping methods for stress?"

Ziva gave a short nod. "Will it help self-control?"

"If you can remember to use them, yes."

She steadied her bobbing head. "Ok. Start now."

The doctor made another quick note. "I don't want to overload you, but let's start with something simple—make sure you know where you are."

She stared, unimpressed. "Hospital."

Hess nodded. "That's not quite what I meant. Think about how you felt right before or in the beginning of your panic attack yesterday—did you know where you were?"

Ziva thought. "Not really. I did not…I could not…"

"You were right back in captivity, weren't you?"

"Yes," she admitted, surprised. "I was."

"Where are you now, Ziva?"

"My room. Seven-oh-four. You are here. I can call for Anya. I can…call Abba, Tony, Abby..."

"Are you safe?"

Her eyes widened. "Yes," she said, slightly incredulous. "No one here hurt me. _Will_ hurt me."

Dr. Hess gave her a small smile. "That's right. I want you to think about that the next time you feel anxious—you're here. You're safe. You can call whomever you want. Empower yourself; remember that feelings are only feelings. Just because you _feel_ like someone is going to hurt you doesn't mean that someone _will_. Think about yesterday—who were you with?"

Ziva ticked off clumsy fingers. "Dev, Freddie, Abba, Tony, Tim, Dr. Monroe, Dr. Miller—everyone."

"And would any of those people hurt you?"

"No," she replied easily. "No…Abba and Tony…they…they would not…"

"They wouldn't let it happen."

"No, they would not." She paused to think, then looked up and frowned. "They would not let it…why did I…I cannot…I _did _not…" She threw her hands down in frustration. "S_tupid_."

Dr. Hess leaned forward and waited for Ziva to make eye contact before she spoke again. "No, you aren't. You might have lost control but that doesn't mean you're stupid, Ziva. I do not want to hear you use that word again."

She frowned, chastised. "Ok. Sorry."

"Apologize to yourself, not to me."

She looked away. "I feel stupid."

"Think about what I just said—feelings are only feelings. Does _feeling_ stupid mean you _are _stupid?"

Ziva shook her head but couldn't form an answer.

"Can you overcome the things that make you _feel_ stupid?"

She gave a half-hearted shrug. "Dunno. Maybe. My head is…slow."

"From now on you are not permitted to put yourself down. No _stupid_, no _slow_, no disparaging language of any kind." She pointed a kind finger at her. "And I'll be checking. Ok?"

She smiled a little. "Ok. I am sorry but I am tired and my head…"

"You should sleep. You have a meeting at three about your MRI and that will require attention and focus. I'll be back tomorrow, but we'll probably meet down in the gym. Sleep well, Ziva. Good work today."

She rang for Justine and got Gibbs, who'd gone home during her session to shower, shave, and change. He loped in with a smirk and put a coffee and a lukewarm herbal tea on the table. She wanted it, but lifting and swallowing seemed like tall orders.

"Headache still?" He asked, and kissed her brow to check for fever. She was fine-cool, dry, and calm.

"Yes," she sighed. "I need a nap."

"Nurse is on her way. Close your eyes. Want me to roll you?" He didn't wait for her to respond. With one hand on her hip and another on the crown of her head, he log rolled her onto her right side and propped a flat pillow between her knees.

Ziva sighed. "Better, Abba. Thanks."

He fussed for a minute—if Gibbs was capable of fussing—tucking the quilt around her and rubbing her back in slow circles.

"Sure you're ok?" He asked gently. "Was your session all right?"

"M'fine," she slurred, cracking one eyelid when Anya pushed Percocet into the IV in her arm. "_M'tiiiired_."

Justine put a hand on Gibbs' arm. "I think she's ok, Papa. Why don't you get a few hours of work in while she sleeps?"

"No," he said bluntly, settling in the recliner. "I'll stay. Never know when she's going to have a nightmare."

Justine just grinned and tiptoed out on crepe soles.

. . . .

The seventh-floor conference room was long and narrow. Team Gibbs crowded around one end of the table, hunched over Ziva's MRI images like vultures over carrion. They spoke in hushed tones and shared expectant, nervous glances.

Dr. Monroe pointed and opened her mouth to speak, but one look at Ziva, drowsy and slumped in her wheelchair, stopped her. She gave her a nudge. "Hey, kiddo—stay awake for me. You need to pay attention."

Ziva sat up and shook her head as if to clear it. "Ok," she said softly, blinking.

Gibbs brushed a knuckle over her cheek. "You too tired?"

"No," she said, voice still soft. "I am ok. Begin, please?"

The doctor glanced at all six hopeful faces. "Ziva has a small area of neocortical gliosis in the language center of her brain. What that means is that there is a small area of scarring in the brain tissue itself and it's causing some disruption in electrical activity. That's what happens when you have an absence seizure, Ziva—those circuits overload and you kinda 'blank out,' for lack of a better term. I've also identified that these episodes are lengthened and worsened by stress. I think that's why you had such a widespread event yesterday-the flashback was so intense that the system went haywire and starting firing all over. That was the worst seizure you've ever had, but I'm pretty confident that we can manage your stress so that it doesn't happen again. Everyone following?"

Six heads nodded. Ten eyes wandered toward Ziva and back to the doctor.

"What does this mean?" Gibbs demanded.

"It means that those axioms are trying to repair themselves, but that's a long and arduous process and some of that scar tissue might be in the way of the regrouping cells. It explains not just the seizure activity, but also the fatigue, aphasia, emotional instability, and sleep disturbances. Your brain is working double and triple time, Ziva, but you _are_ healing. Still with me?"

She nodded mutely and studied the images again. "Will I have seizures _ever_?" She blurted, sad and angry. "I do not want."

Dr. Monroe shrugged. "You might, or you might not. If you do end up with permanent epilepsy then we'll work together to maintain medication and a wellness regimen to deal with it. Diet, exercise, cognitive therapy…it's a fairly common condition. I'm certain that you will cope successfully."

She nodded but wasn't appeased. "I want to go home," she insisted. "I want to go home with Tony. To _my_ home. I want normal _now_."

The doctor raised her eyebrows. "Why so irritated, Ziva?"

"I want to go home," she repeated. "I do not want here forever. I want my life. I want to…_go_."

"Ok. Then you need to spend a few weeks working very hard with, Devorah, Freddie, Dr. Miller, and me. Can you commit to that?"

"Yes. I can do that. I want to." She gazed fiercely at everyone and then crumbled into tears. "I want to go home," she repeated, crying softly. "_I want to go home_."

Tony lifted her hand from the wheelchair armrest and kissed it gently. Gibbs stroked her hair and whispered in her ear until she calmed down and glanced at everyone again.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I lost self-control."

"You're doing ok," the doctor nodded. "I like how you acknowledged that. Can we keep going?"

She nodded, face red in embarrassment.

"So today I altered your medication schedule a bit. I took the Lorazepam down and the Topamax up. While you may feel a little emotionally unstable, it might do a better job at controlling the neurological events you're having. How did you do with Dr. Hess?"

"Ok," she admitted shyly. "I liked her. She is…bunt. _Blunt_." She blushed again when everyone tittered, but Gibbs kissed her head and murmured praise into her hair.

Dr. Monroe touched Ziva's hand to focus her again. "I want to keep a very close eye on you in the coming weeks. First, because of the adjustment of medication, secondly because of your metabolic issues. I sent some of your blood to a specialist at Fairfax. You might have an endocrinal issue from the head injury; it could be why you can't keep weight on. I want you to get more nutrition during the night and more meals during the day—you'll have snacks during therapy and more food at lunch and dinner. You have to finish all of it, but I'll be sure you get more say in what you eat. Does that sound good?"

She gave a small smile. "Yes."

"So tomorrow Devorah will get you at nine for PT, then OT, then Speech, then a session with Dr. Hess. You'll take a nap between Speech and therapy, but more no more than two hours. Do you have any requests?"

"No," Ziva said quietly.

Dr. Monroe looked at each team member. "And you guys? Your job is motivation—dangle carrots. Keep her on track, but don't let her get overwhelmed. We can plan things like outings and special meals to prevent boredom."

Abby whispered mischievously to McGee. Ziva rolled her eyes at Tony, who smiled and laced their fingers together.

"Questions, anyone?" The doctor looked around keenly.

Abby slid forward in her seat. "When can Ziva go home?"

She shrugged. "In four to six weeks if the seizures are controlled and her weight is back in triple digits. She'll have daily outpatient therapies for quite a while afterward, including vocational and educational counseling."

McGee nodded. "Ziva, would you like to try gait-training therapy again?"

"Maybe," she conceded, biting her lip. "But no pictures and no…hovering me. I felt so ashamed with watching."

Everyone looked away, guilt and failure heavy on their shoulders.

"I am not mad," she said heavily. "I am sorry you feel…bad. I did not mean. I want you to…be happy. I want you to…to…_have_ me."

"We do!" Abby chirped. "It's so hard for us to watch you struggle. I mean, we know it's necessary, and a part of your healing, but we have a difficult time when you're upset or angry because it makes us feel like we're failing you."

Ziva blinked, taken aback by her admission. "You are not fail. You are so good to me. Sometimes…sometimes I feel I do not…serve? Das…_deserve_ it. But I do not want you to go. I will do my best, ok?"

Everyone grinned.

"You're very tenacious, Ziva," Dr. Monroe praised. "You're something to be proud of."

Tony kissed her hand. "We know, Doc. Is there anything else, or can I take Zi on a walk for some private time?"

She nodded. "Go, but you head right back to her room if she starts to fade out on you. Still nursing that hangover, Ziva?"

She raised one shoulder. "Small, but I am ok."

Everyone stood and exchanged impish smiles.

"We'll meet you back in the room," Abby said cheerfully. "Maybe we'll play a few rounds of _Spot It_ afer dinner." _Spot It_ was a card game recommended for therapeutic benefit. It combined spatial reasoning and object naming, and the speed it required suited Ziva. When all four of them played each round ended in a laughing fit. She loved it and sometimes replayed each hand in her mind as a way to fall asleep.

She looked at Tony. "Where we going?"

He stood and spun her gently toward the exit. "The sun is out. I thought we'd head to the top-floor atrium and take in the view, maybe work on our tans."

"Ok," she agreed, ignoring the fatigue that pulled at the corners of her eyes.

He pushed her down the hall and up to the elevator, where it took two tries for her to find the right button. She huffed at her own lethargy.

"Easy lion," he teased. He ruffled her hair and found it was matted from sleep. "I'll comb this out for you when we get back. Why is Gibbs letting you run around looking like a ragamuffin?"

Ziva shrugged. "I dunno."

"Well, you're always beautiful to me but I don't want this to get painful. Push the button for tenth floor—let's see how rush hour looks from up there."

The sun was fading but the glow of brake lights on the beltway was almost peaceful. Ziva sighed, feeling melancholic and a little lost. Would she be on her way home from the Navy Yard tonight, fighting traffic and pounding on her steering wheel to the sounds of Hadag Nahash or Idan Raichel? Or would she be slogging around a crime scene, worrying about rain and evidence and bald tires? She rubbed her aching head and reached for Tony's hand.

He set the wheelchair brakes and came around in front of her, dragging over an uncomfortable chair and plopping down with a sigh. "We need to talk," he said.

She dropped her chin to her chest, already feeling rejected. "Ok," she whispered.

Tony knit his brows. "What, sweet cheeks? Why so sad?"

She shook her head, dark eyes despondent. "No, go ahead."

"I did a lot of thinking today," he began. "Yesterday really scared me. It _hurt_ me. You were so scared, and then you had that seizure, and then you were out of it for the whole day—you still don't feel great, do you?—and I just wanted to have a talk."

Pressure built in Ziva's chest but she nodded and motioned for him to continue.

He wasn't looking at her. "I worry about losing you. I worry every day, Zi. And I don't want to worry any more."

She was crying then, certain she was being rejected, certain he would rescind his offer of a shared life and she'd be in the hospital forever. Alone and deteriorating, she would have no more team. No Tony, no Abba, no rehab with Devorah and Freddie, no smoothies or card games with Abby and McGee. The doctors would lock her up in a windowless ward and leave her there to die.

She was so lost in fear and hopelessness that she didn't feel Tony's hand on her brow and cheek, didn't see him dig in his pocket, didn't see him slide out of his chair and kneel before her. The world was ending and with it ended the hope she had for any real life beyond the hospital's somber walls.

Tony wiped her tears away and brushed her wild curls out of her eyes. "Hey," he said softly. "Why are you crying already? I haven't even asked yet."

Ziva stared at him, bewildered and totally devastated.

He pried her fingers from around the armrest and slid a simple diamond solitaire onto her finger. The band was too big so he held it in place while she stared, open-mouthed, and burst into more tears.

"Marry me?" He asked softly. "Please, Ziva?"

She nodded, grasping for self-control.

"Does that mean yes?"

She nodded, right hand over her mouth, left hand limp and sweaty in his. He used his sleeve to dry her face. "You ok, sweet cheeks? You look so confused."

"I thought you want left," she cried, confounded and not entirely relieved. "I thought you go away and I would just—" She swallowed and wrapped both arms around his neck, trusting him to catch her when she sagged forward in her chair.

Tony kissed her brow, then her ear, then her nape, laughing a little. "I'm so sorry. I should've phrased that differently. You ok?"

She nodded, tears abating, and shifted so he could slide her back into her seat. Her eyes were serious when he pulled away. "Tony," she started. Her voice was a warning, stern and frank. "I will be in a wheelchair."

"I know," he replied softly.

"I have seizures. I might have them ever. _For_ever."

"I know," he said again.

"I will be different. I am not how I was—it will take time for us to…be ok with that. But I want a life with you. I want to share you. _With_ you. You help me be ok, Tony. You help me be normal. I want to be normal with you and for you. I…I..want you to have me, but it might be while before I am ready for marry you. Can you wait?"

He gave her a confident smirk. "Waited this long, haven't I?"

"You have," she agreed seriously. "But this is…different. We both know. If you can wait then I can, too." She glanced at him, nervous and shy. "But I will still go home with you, right? You won't make me stay…"

Tony pulled her out of her chair and into his lap. She sucked in a breath when her legs tangled but he straightened them out with his forearm and hugged her close.

"I can't wait to take you home," he murmured in her ear. "I can't wait to show you our new house. It's so beautiful and I'm really proud of what we've done so far. I hope you are, too."

"I am," she whispered. "You are a good man, Tony." She nuzzled against his shoulder and closed her eyes, calm and quiet. Many long minutes passed before he shifted and her head came up. She stared, confused.

"You fell asleep on me, Zee-vah. I think it's time to eat and crawl back into bed. Think you can make it downstairs?"

She smiled and locked her arms around his neck so he could transfer her back to the wheelchair. "You are right. And everyone is wait for us. They will be…"

"They'll be nothing," Tony grinned devilishly. "They knew what I was doing."

She almost crowed in delight and faint surprise. "You _told_?"

"Yeah, I may have made some phone calls while your stuff was being hauled around. That damned hutch weighs about a thousand pounds. How the hell did you get that in your condo?"

"I had a very strong neighbor," she teased back, dark eyes all mischief. The playful moment was interrupted by a wide yawn. "Oh," she sighed. "I'm so tired."

"Back to bed," he announced. He slid the ring off her hand, threaded it on a long length of black cord, and tied it behind her neck. Ziva slipped it beneath her shirt and sighed when the metal warmed against her skin.

He ushered her back down to the seventh floor, where Gibbs, Abby, Tim, and Ducky were finishing up a meal of deli sandwiches and soda. They chorused congratulations and mazel tovs, hugging each of them and offering well-wishes.

Gibbs stood when Tony parked the wheelchair for transfer. He bear-hugged Ziva back into bed and left a lingering kiss on her forehead. "You said yes?"

She rubbed her eyes. "How you know?"

He pointed at Tony, who was picking at the leftover pastrami from McGee's sandwich. "He still has a pulse."

She giggled and let him pull the quilt up to her shoulders. "I did not eat," she said quietly. "I am supposed to eat, but I do not want. I am too tired."

Ducky squeezed her hand. "You will get more nutrition via the nasogastric tube tonight and tomorrow you will start your day with a healthy breakfast. I'm glad you're improving, Ziva. I was quite anxious when I heard about yesterday's episode."

She took stock quickly, twisting the quilt in her hands, sinking her head deeper into the pillows. "I am fine," she announced confidently. "I am fine. I am big and fine. It is hard, but I will be ok."

He nodded, eyes large behind his glasses. "Let Anthony take care of you, Ziva. He wants to do that very much."

She angled her head toward him. A small, knowing smile danced across her face. "Ducky, I do not have a choice."

"You do," he argued. "You have Jethro, Timothy, Abigail…they would all be ready and willing to accept a portion of your personal care."

"But I will not marry them," she whispered, and winked.

Ducky guffawed quietly. "No, Ziva, I absolutely agree with that. I will call Anya to start your nightly diffusion. Are you quite all right?"

"Headache all day," she admitted. "But I will have something for it and then sleep. Tomorrow is 'nother day."

Tony had been talking with Abby and stuffing potato chips in his mouth. He sidled up to the bedside, still chewing, and held up a hairbrush. "You want me to do this?"

Ziva held up a warning finger. "Careful. Do not pull."

He brushed a kiss on her cheek and gathered a section of her hair in his hand. "I will be as gentle as a butterfly."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, and a butterfly gave me scrape on my hip."

He looked up in shock when their audience broke into laughter. "Hey," he said seriously. "That wasn't my fault."

"It was the butterfly's?" She teased.

"I felt terrible all day for that," he complained. "I was a wreck, thinking I'd broken you like a bad little kid breaks a toy."

"He was kind of a mess, Ziva," McGee supplied. "Wouldn't even watch _The Mummy_ after that."

"He let pizza get cold," Abby chimed in.

Ziva eyed Tony suspiciously. "I am not so fragile," she said smoothly. "I cannot even feel most things."

"I know. But I don't want to hurt you. I can't bear it, Zi. Seriously." He gently untangled another snarl in her hair and began to brush with long, smooth strokes. She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Um," McGee started uncertainly. "I don't want to ruin the mood, but you should be careful with cuts and bruises, Ziva. They can lead to infection, and that's dangerous for you. Have you been taught how to check your skin yet?"

She opened one eye and rolled it at him. "You did ruin the mood, Tim. _Toda."_

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It is ok. Tony, keep brushing." He'd stopped to ponder what Tim had said.

Abby stood and stretched. "Well, maybe I should go. There's plenty of work for me to do at the lab, and then I'm off to bowl with the nuns. Sister Rita is coming after the game. See if she'll show you her new bowling shoes. They're imitation kangaroo leather and the most beautiful shade of chartreuse I've ever seen."

Tim stood with her. "I'll go with you," he said quickly. "Not to bowl, of course, but I can keep an eye on Major Mass Spec if the cycle doesn't finish before your lane opens."

She threaded her arm through his. "Goodnight, all. Zivvie, you call me if you need me ok? I'm not far away and the hearse is always idling for a midnight smoothie run."

"Ok," she replied without opening her eyes. "Goodnight. I love you both. Abba? You should go, too. You are tired as me."

Gibbs stroked her cheek. "You know how to get me, sweetheart. Sleep tight."

He fixed Tony with a hard look, but smirked and cuffed his shoulder. "Way to man up," he whispered.

Tony bobbed his head but kept brushing. "Thanks. Goodnight."

He loped out, exhaustion clear in the length of his stride. Tony put the brush aside once Ziva's curls were smooth and tangle-free on the pillow, then stepped out of his shoes and shifted onto the bed.

"Zi?"

"Hm?"

He had to work up the courage to speak again. "Why don't you call me when you have nightmares? Why is it always Gibbs?"

She took a long time to find her response. "I did not want you see that, Tony. I did not want you see me so…bad. It is hard. I am sorry. I will try, ok?"

"You can call me," he whispered back. "No shame. Remember?"

"No shame," she echoed, drifting. "Tony?"

"What, sweet cheeks?"

"I love you. I love you big."

"I love you _huge_," he amplified.

"You made us a home," she slurred, half-asleep.

He wrapped his arm around her. "It's not a home until you get there. Sleep. I love you."


	24. Unguided

_**Arrows of neon and flashin' marquees out on Main Street / Chicago, New York, Detroit and it's all on the same street. **_

**That's right my kind friends, we're _Truckin_'. The transitions are happening fast and then faster and they pulled me right along down Route 66. Remember that I love you, ok? **

**Big love to Chemmie and my reader, Astrafiammante, because I need the occasional shove. Or "kick in the pants," as some might say.**

***edited because technology is a jerk sometimes**

**. . . .**

_You are not the first to wake up,_

_ to learn your lines before you have the part._

_ -New Pornographers, "Unguided."_

There was a lull in the early morning activities when Dr. Monroe came in to Ziva's room, carrying a stack of file folders and smiling a tight, brittle smile. "You guys got a minute?" She asked. Her eyes darted a bit, finding the corners, the oxygen wall-unit, the owl tucked against the bedside rails. "I wanted to talk to you about our plans for the coming weeks."

Tony saw a flicker of fear cross Ziva's face but she smiled and squeezed his hand. _I'm fine_, her eyes told him.

"Yeah, we got a minute," he agreed vaguely, eyes still on her. "Dev isn't coming for another half an hour. We finished the morning routine quickly. We're getting pretty good at it."

"That's good," the doctor mused, flipping through her files. She waved someone else through the door and Tony's breath caught.

"What?" Ziva begged quietly. "Who?"

A man, confident in an expensive suit, stepped forward and offered her his hand. "I'm Jonathan Ammon, a volunteer patient liaison with Walter Reed. I stopped in once before but you were asleep. It's nice to meet you in person, Ms. David; I've heard impressive things about you. And it's nice to see you again, Mr. DiNozzo."

"Wish I could say the same," Tony snarked, unchecked. Ziva gave him a hard look and said nothing.

Dr. Monroe pulled two chairs alongside the bed and motioned for Ammon to sit. "So," she began hesitantly, "I have been working with Jonathan in regards to the incident we had with Amy and that incorrectly fitted CTO." She dropped her voice and Tony understood the reason for her anxiety; she was there to do penance.

She took a deep breath and carried on. "I have carried a significant amount of guilt for how you were treated, Ziva. It shames me to this day that you were put in such a traumatic position."

She blinked at the doctor, then at Tony. "What?"

He laced their fingers together. "Do you remember that, Zi? Do you remember the day of your tonsillectomy, when Amy put you in that brace that opened up all those sores on your shoulders? You had a bunch of seizures and you were in pain…" He faded off when she just shrugged and shook her head.

Ammon cleared his throat. "While we're thrilled that you haven't threatened to sue for malpractice, we decided that Ms. David deserves compensation for her suffering. The legal team of Walter Reed National Military Medical Center has—with Dr. Monroe's help—put together a package that you may either accept as-is, or alter to suit your needs."

Tony scowled. "What do you mean _compensation package_?" He held out his hands. "Listen, I just want Ziva to get far enough through rehab that I can take her home. We have a beautiful new house nearby that has been renovated to accommodate her needs."

Dr. Monroe pushed a folder at him. ''Tony, I think you're misunderstanding Mr. Ammon. We'd like to offer some generous compensation for that incident. We've fired the woman who acted so negligently, and, as a means to provide closure, we'd like to help with some of the financial aspects of Ziva's recovery and rehabilitation. Ziva, are you following?"

She shrugged. "Yes, small."

The doctor smiled. "Stop me at any point if you're confused."

Tony took the proffered file but didn't open it. "Stop beating around the bush."

Ammon slid forward in his chair and aligned his knees with Dr. Monroe's. "The hospital would like to cover the cost of Ms. David's rehab from here on out. That means her physical, occupational, speech, and cognitive therapies will be paid for by Walter Reed."

"That's very generous," Tony said tightly. "Thank you."

"That's not all," he continued. "We'd also like to cover the cost of the wheelchair and seating clinic, as well as any adaptive equipment she needs for home or travel. Ms. David, you can work with our mobility specialists when you decide you're ready."

"Ok," she agreed vaguely. "Today?"

Dr. Monroe smiled at her enthusiasm. "Ziva, you and I are going to spend the day with Devorah. We have some tests to run if you're going home in a month or six weeks."

She made a face at the mention of tests. "Fine."

"Nothing painful, I hope," Tony said firmly. "We've both had enough of that."

"Understood," she agreed, eyes downcast.

Ammon interrupted once again. "Furthermore, Mr. DiNozzo, we'd like to comp you for the changes you've made to your home. Did you keep the receipts for parts and labor?"

He was stunned. "Yeah. It's a tax-write off, I think. You're sure about that?"

"Absolutely. Submit copies of the receipt to the legal team's business office. You'll find the address and fax number in the folder you're holding." He stood and buttoned his jacket. "There are a few forms in there, also, that you can sign and return to us if you accept the offer. Speak to Dr. Monroe or myself if you feel something has been left out. Have a nice day."

Ziva watched him leave, blinking hard at Tony and the doctor. She opened her mouth to say something but her eyes flickered and a thin string of saliva dripped onto the quilt tucked at her waist.

"Dammit," Monroe cursed quietly. "Can't get two good days in a row, can you?"

Tony shook his head and smoothed her hair. "I'd hand this file right back to him if it meant she never had another seizure."

Luckily, she came around fast. "Why he was here?" She asked, slurring a little as she rebuilt the lost mental connections.

"We'll talk in the gym," he promised, and kissed her knuckles.

Downstairs, Ziva was laid on a floor mat and propped up with a blue foam wedge the size of her first car. Tony took her hand and Dr. Monroe sat cross-legged next to them. Devorah knelt at Ziva's feet, grinning as usual and holding a clipboard.

"We're doing some assessments today," she announced casually. "You want to go home?"

Ziva nodded enthusiastically, eyebrows raised.

Dev was pleased. "Wonderful! "First things first: we're going to figure out what sensation you have and where."

Dr. Monroe pulled a small wooden dowel from the pocket of her coat. "This is how we're going to see what you feel. I'm going to poke—We'll do it twice: the first time I'll poke around while you watch, then we'll do it again with your eyes closed. Your job is to tell me what you feel. Ready?"

"Yes," she agreed, already concentrating.

The doctor poked around Ziva's feet and ankles, happy to discover that she had sensation at the base of her toes, up her instep, and across the front of her ankle.

"Very nice," she praised softly, but frowned when Ziva reported that she felt nothing when touched just an inch higher.

Dev made notes. "Even a little sensation means we can talk about recumbent spinning and swimming."

Ziva's face lit up. "Swimming? Really?"

"We have a pool," Tony reminded her.

"Good," she replied brightly. "Keep going."

Dr. Monroe prodded up her legs—both front and back—but Ziva didn't report any more sensation until she got over the crest of her hipbones.

"There," she said to one ticklish spot below her belly button.

"Good sensation, poor trunk control," Devorah ruminated aloud.

The doctor nodded. "Swimming and positioning should help with that. Ziva, how long can you hold a long sit?"

She shrugged and studied the ceiling tiles. "Small," she said quietly. "I like to have something behind so I do not fall."

"Is it hard to keep your head up when you're sitting independently? Does your back curl like a C?"

"Yes," she replied, still studying the ceiling.

Tony brushed his mouth against her knuckles again. "It's ok, Zi. You'll get stronger."

The doctor pressed on. "Close your eyes, Ziva. I want to do the test without you looking this time."

She huffed, anxious to get back to therapy. "Fine. Go ahead."

Dr. Monroe poked again at her feet and ankles, but Ziva said nothing. She, Devorah, and Tony exchanged looks of resignation.

"Go _ahead_," Ziva prodded impatiently. "I want to work."

Dev touched her hand. "She did, _sabra_. You didn't feel it?"

She closed her eyes and sighed. Two tears slid down her temples and into her hair. "No."

"It's very common with incomplete injuries to have some sensation when you look and none when you don't-it's your brain working its magic tricks. But think of the positives; swimming, cycling, maybe some gait-training without the robot. Let's sit up and check your hands and arms, ok?"

Ziva swallowed her sadness. "Ok." She reached for Tony to pull her up, but Dr. Monroe pushed his hands away.

"Do it yourself, Ziva," she coaxed. "You know how."

Reaching down with her right arm, she used her locked fist to throw her right leg over the left and then stuffed her hands beneath her. She levered herself up slowly, panting with the effort. "Did it," she announced seriously.

Devorah measured her grip, dexterity, hand-eye coordination, and reflexes. She couldn't throw or catch a ball, nor toss rings over cones, but the pegboard was easy as long as her vestibular system was being cooperative. Tony kissed her hair and praised her with each success and encouraged her to shake off the failures.

Ziva was panting when Dev moved her back to the floor mats and propped her up once again on a foam wedge. Tony held out her mug full of ice water and she sipped contentedly while the doctor and therapist talked about her results. They spoke quickly, each jotting notes in turn on the clipboard. He tried to listen but their technical shorthand was beyond him, so he gave up and allows his head to fall to Ziva's shoulder. Sensing his anxiety, she patted his cheek and offered a sip of water. He declined lovingly and kissed her cheek.

Dr. Monroe sat next to Ziva with the clipboard and shuffled some papers. "We have a questionnaire for you. I'll ask the questions, you answer on a scale of one to seven. One means you need a lot of help, seven means you mean none. Got it?" She looked deliberately at Tony because Ziva would need his assistance; the terms were too abstract for her.

"Got it," he answered for her.

"Let's start with the basics. Ziva, can you eat by yourself?"

"Seven," she answered proudly.

Tony didn't want to hurt her feelings but she wasn't quite accurate. He tapped her on the forearm. "Uh, who cuts your food, Zi?"

Dr. Monroe nodded and smiled. "I'd rate you a four, most likely."

Ziva stared at Tony, sad-faced. "You should be able to do it by yourself," he amended quickly. "It just takes practice. I'm sure you'll get a seven by the time you go home."

She just nodded. "Next?"

"Do you groom yourself? That means brushing hair and teeth, putting on makeup, tying shoes—that sort of thing."

"Three," she answered softly. "I cannot tie but I do teeth."

"Do you bathe independently?"

"Two," Tony answered, heart sinking.

"She'll learn," Dev shrugged, adjusting Ziva's pressure stockings.

"Do you do your own bowel and bladder care?"

"One," she lamented, eyes averted.

"Again," Devorah interrupted, "you'll learn."

"Do you have difficulty swallowing?"

"Seven!" Ziva gloated.

Dr. Monroe smiled at her. "That's something to celebrate. Maybe Abba needs to bring a special dinner for you tonight."

"Yes," she agreed easily. "I will call him late."

"Later," Tony corrected. She shot him a scowl.

The doctor scratched a reminder in the margin of her paper. "Can you transfer yourself from a wheelchair into bed?"

"One."

"Can you transfer yourself in the bathroom—toilet, bathtub, shower?"

"One."

"Can you transfer yourself into the car?"

Ziva lost her patience. "I do not transfer _anywhere_. Keep going."

"Can you propel a wheelchair?"

"Dunno," she mumbled.

"She never tried," Tony amended.

Devorah patted Ziva's hand. "The transport chairs we have are too heavy. She doesn't have the grasp or dexterity to give a smooth push. I think your arms are too short, Ziv. Those chairs are meant for big Army guys, not little things like you."

The doctor nodded, taking more notes. "Let's move on to your modes of expression. How would you rate speaking on the same scale?"

"It is hard," she acknowledged shyly. "Maybe four?"

"How well do you understand other people?"

"Same."

"Reading?"

Ziva's head came up and she smiled the first genuine smile of the day. "Six. I do very well reading. I _like_ to read."

"That's great! Has anyone brought you a book?"

"Um, no," she replied anxiously. "I did not ask and in the light…it is…is hard. I like the tablet."

"You need an e-reader, then. I'll talk to Tim. How about writing?"

She sighed. "Grab and hold is hard, too, but I want to work more. I like to write."

"Got a number for me?"

She looked at Tony. "Three?"

"I think two," he decided delicately. "Those pencils are slippery."

She smiled and ducked her head, but not without casting an appreciative glance in his direction. "Yes."

Dr. Monroe put down her pen and clipboard. "The next questions are about your psychosocial progress, but I don't want to overwhelm you. Do you need a break?"

"No. I want this done and then work."

"How's your social interaction?"

Ziva blinked. "Huh?"

Tony shifted closer. "She wants to know how you feel about socializing. Do you like to talk with people?"

"Yes," she said, puzzled. "I like when everyone is there at dinner. It is nice. I like see them and talk about things."

"What about meeting new people or going new places?"

She cringed. "No. I cannot yet."

Dr. Monroe dropped her head to make eye contact. "How are you adjusting to your limitations, Ziva?"

Tony and Devorah braced themselves, expecting waterworks and self-deprecation. To their pleasant surprise, Ziva only huffed, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. "It is hard," she sighed. "But I am learn. Learn_ing_. I will be ok. I can have a good life." She shrugged and offered them all a small smile. "But this is a good day. Some are very bad."

The doctor was pleased. "That was a big step, kiddo. I like how you're keeping everything in perspective. Does that have anything to do with that string around your neck?"

Devorah squinted at the tiny bulge beneath Ziva's shirt. She cocked her head and met Tony's eye. "_Mazel tov_. I think you're the winner here, my friend."

He grinned stupidly, so proud of himself he could burst. "I know."

She shook his hand and smiled back. "All good things. And I'll be watching you."

"Join the club," he deadpanned. "You, Gibbs, Tim, Abby, Ducky…"

"Me," the doctor interjected.

Ziva rolled her eyes. "I am fine. I can take care myself."

"We know," Devorah acquiesced. "But that doesn't mean we can't do it, too. Speaking of taking care of yourself; how are your memory and concentration? Can you give them a number?"

She squinted back at the therapist. "Four and five. I do well when it is quiet."

Dr. Monroe took more notes. "Quiet inside your head or outside of it?"

"Both," she answered simply. "I want up from here."

"Soon," Tony told her gently. "Let's get some results first."

Dev slid around to his side. "Ziva, you need to be able to do most of the things on that list before we'll send you home. You don't have to be scoring sevens on everything, but you should be able to transfer independently to bed and to the car."

"Car?" She puzzled. "How I will drive?"

Dr. Monroe laid a hand on her arm. "You won't be driving, Ziva. I held off on the clinical diagnosis, but the seizure you had this morning confirms my suspicion of epilepsy. I think I need to document it now."

"I will go slow," she promised, still confused.

"There isn't a DMV in the tri-state area that will let you keep your driver's license if you have a formal epilepsy diagnosis, Ziva. They revoke it to keep you safe."

Tony slid an arm beneath the small of her back but she winced and shoved him away. "So I cannot do anything now. Fine. I will learn something else." She had the urge to cross her arms, but it was too complicated, so she huffed instead. "What else I lose?" She glowered, eyes hooded.

"We're not taking these things to isolate or humiliate you, Ziva," Dr. Monroe explained patiently. "It's not our choice, but I can see why the state requires it. What if you were driving and you had a seizure? You'd get in an accident. You might hit a child on his way to school, or a jogger, or someone on her way to work. You could seriously hurt yourself or someone else."

Ziva nodded begrudgingly. "I understand. So someone will drive me. What if I need to go to shopping or Abba? Wait, can I go to Abba?" She paused with one finger in the air.

Tony put her hand down. "Yep, we built ramps to the front and back doors. He said if you can't come visit then no one can."

She scoffed fondly. "Only Abba. Can we work now?"

Dev pulled her upright and waited until she found her center of gravity. "Yep. Dr. Monroe will see you later. She's going to work out a wheelchair scrip for you."

"She has one," Monroe corrected, smiling. "She goes when she's ready."

"Today," Ziva demanded.

"Tomorrow," Dev and Tony chorused.

. . . .

"You look tired, Agent Gibbs," Deputy Director Eli David said mildly, though there was an acerbic glimmer in his eyes. He folded his hands on the polished desktop before him. "I will keep this short. Leon Pignatoro's ring of petty criminals has been disbanded. Or perhaps I should say _disposed of_. They are no longer a threat to Ziva's safety. Suffolk County Police was not notified. Do not expect to hear about this on the evening news."

"Thank you, Deputy Director."

"How is Ziva?" Eli's features had softened but there was still a bite in his tone.

Gibbs gave him a curt nod. "Every day is a battle. Good thing you taught her to fight."

His chin raised in a gesture of assumption. "She is handicapped."

"Most likely," he replied, keeping his face impassive. "Unless there's some miracle you know about that I don't."

David's facial expression couldn't be trusted. "Please, Agent Gibbs, I am a grieving father."

"Bull," he spat. "You're more than happy to hand her off to us. It's easier to bury a kid than it is to provide for one that's in a wheelchair. You get to move on. She doesn't."

David unclasped his hands and picked up a gold pen. "You look truly exhausted, Gibbs. Should you decide that tending to Ziva is too much, I am willing to take over. There are a number of institutions in Israel and Europe that would provide an excellent standard of care."

His gut roiled. "She's fine. She's got another month of inpatient rehab and then she's going home. We've got this, Eli."

"Agent Gibbs, I understand that you and Ziva have grown quite close since the beginning of this…ordeal."

"You spying on us?"

"I don't need to spy on your team to recognize the tics in your face and the stiffness of your posture. I have offended your sensibilities. Do you care for her the way I think you do?"

He couldn't keep from stiffening further. "What's it to you?"

David's voice grew soft, almost wistful. _Almost_. There was still a hardened glint in his eye that rankled Gibbs. "Please, I implore you—love for my daughter as you would your own."

"I told you, Eli, we got this."

"I don't want to hear _we_. _You_ are the only one who understands her. _You_ are the one who can provide for her on more than a material level. Please keep the promise you made that she will have opportunity, that she will be peaceful."

"I haven't forgotten."

Eli David nodded and looked hard at something above the camera's eye. "Thank you. Goodnight."

Slamming his empty coffee cup in the trash, Gibbs stormed back down the stairs and swung around the banister, fury bubbling under the surface. Tim and Abby were hovering over his desk and they looked up with wide eyes when he stomped up to them.

"What?" he demanded, hands stiff.

Abby pointed at the blotter. "Someone came in and dropped off an envelope. I didn't recognize him but he had a badge, not a visitor's pass. Is everything ok? You don't think Pignatoro is going to get out of jail or something, do you? I mean, he's not going to pull an _Escape from Alcatraz_ by burrowing through cinderblock and swim across the Potomac to get revenge—"

"No," he almost shouted. "I don't. Get back to work."

They scattered, Abby teetering away on her platform shoes. He'd have to make a gesture of apology later.

The envelope contained an official letter on Eli David's stationary. It had been typed on an old-fashioned ribbon typewriter and notarized by officials in Maryland, Virginia, the District of Columbia, California, Oregon, Pennsylvania, and Tel Aviv. He swept his calluses over the seals and squinted, glasses forgotten.

_Leroy Jethro Gibbs has been granted guardianship of Ziva David, a disabled adult, and is authorized to have under the direction of the court, all the custody of the ward and to do all acts required of him by law._

_Signed, _

_Eliezer David, __Deputy Director, HaMossad L'Modi'in u'le'Tafkidim_

Enclosed was another check for fifty thousand dollars. He pocketed both the letter and the money, marched to the elevator, and jabbed the button.

"I'm out," he called to McGee.

He waved, brows furrowed. "What should I tell Vance?"

"Nothing he doesn't need to know."

Gibbs went straight home, squealing his tires in the driveway and lumbering down the basement steps hard enough to rattle the coffee mugs in the sink. He was relieved on one hand that Ziva wouldn't be swept away to Israel, and furious on the other because Eli thought that his daughter was so incapacitated that she needed looking after like an orphan tossed in the streets of pre-industrial London. No, not looked after-_warehoused_. His gut churned and he was glad he'd skipped lunch.

He speed-dialed DiNozzo but Ziva answered.

"Hi Abba," she chirped happily. "How are you?"

His eyes burned with unshed tears. "Hey, Ziver. I'm doin' all right. How about you?"

She was crunching something in her teeth. "Having a…eating. I am at the gym with Tony and Devorah. We are having a…um…a stop."

He grinned despite his anger and sadness; she sounded genuinely upbeat. "Sounds like you're having a good day."

"I am," she said, caution back in her voice. "You are look for Tony?"

"Is he busy?"

"No, he is tired. He is on the mat almost sleep. Sleep-_ing_. Here."

Tony _did_ sound tired. "Hey, Boss."

"I need to talk to you. When can you get to my place?"

"Not for a while. Zi and I are in the gym and then she's off to Dr. Miller for two hours. I don't want to leave her here." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "We just narrowly avoided a meltdown. I agree—we _do_ need to talk. We had a few meetings this morning about Ziva's plans and I want your input."

Gibbs poured a finger of bourbon into a jar and left it on the workbench. "She wearing you out, DiNozzo? Why do you sound like you've gone five rounds with Pacquiao?"

"You wouldn't believe what they have her doing down here—lats, delts, triceps, biceps, presses—to build up her arms. She's refusing a power chair or even power assisted wheels."

"She gets what she wants," he cautioned benevolently enough. There was clear and paternal warning in his tone.

"You want to come here tonight, or should I go there?"

"I'm going to do some work around here. I'll be there for dinner. What do you want to eat?"

"Whatever. And could you get something for Zi? Something she loves? She had a rough evaluation this morning and could really use something good for dinner."

He bristled. "What kind of _rough_, DiNozzo?"

"Gotta go; Ziva's hand-spinning for the next twenty minutes. I want to see if I can keep up with her."

Gibbs threw his phone on the workbench and picked up the envelope of Ziva's baby pictures. He'd skimmed them so many times in the past weeks that he could identify each one with looking; the bent corners and frayed edges, the ballpoint pen labels. He recognized some of Rivka's tight Hebrew script—_Ziva, Tali, school, café, beach, _the years penned in Arabic numerals.

He shuffled them and laid his favorite on top. Ziva was four and apple-cheeked, her curls streaked almost golden by the desert sun. She was sitting on a swing. One hand was grasping hard on the chain—her pudgy knuckles were dimpled with the effort—and she pointed with the other toward something outside the frame. Her face was open in amazement. He'd only come to know her after she'd built a career of espionage and violence. Her dark eyes reflected that; he knew them to be hard, jaded, sophisticated in the ways of brutality. The child in that photograph seemed joyful and curious, if only for the second it took to snap the picture.

He ached for that little girl a bit. Could she know of the suffering that lay in her future? Did she comprehend the hours of training, of drills and deprivation, she'd put in for the state of Israel? Could tiny Ziva understand that she was to confront the darkest underbelly of humanity by the time she finished high school? Maybe she did. Maybe the bruises on her baby-soft wrist—he could see them clearly against the stripes of her t-shirt—were Eli's early work.

Gibbs drank deep then—one, then two, then four fingers of bourbon disappeared. He hoped each drink commemorated a year in Ziva's life that passed—or _would _pass—without suffering. Buzzed, he put the bottle away, rinsed the jar in the utility tub, and stacked the photos back on the shelf. An idea wormed into his brain—a project idea—but he shook his head and grabbed his keys. He needed to go to the bank.

. . . .

Ziva had been moved back down to the sixth floor and everyone was waiting for him when Gibbs finally arrived. The lines were long at the bank, then at the shwarma shop, then at the Lebanese bakery. He'd also spoken, briefly, to his lawyer, but the letter checked out so he ended the conversation and decided to move on.

Abby body-checked and then hugged him."Where were you?" she demanded. "We've been waiting for half an hour. Ziva was promised a treat for dinner and you didn't show and now she's starving."

Gibbs opened thise biggest bag and handed her a takeout box of chicken, cucumber, tomato, and tahini, accompanied by another wax-paper package was full of triangles of pita, still warm from the oven. Tony adjusted the fork strap across Ziva's knuckles and pulled the tabletop closer.

"I am so hungry," she complained, but smiled anyway. "Why you take long?"

"Busy day," he evaded.

She rolled her eyes and dug in, making sure to get a bit of everything on each forkful. "This is good," she praised, mouth full.

Gibbs just gave her a look and sat in Abby's empty chair. "Tell me about your meetings and evals today."

Ziva looked at Tony, silently granting him permission to speak for her. "Well," he drawled reluctantly, "let's take it from the top. Walter Reed is giving Ziva some service compensation for the incident with Amy: free seating clinic, free chair, and anything she might need for home or abroad. They're comping me for the renovations, too."

"They're afraid you're going to sue," Gibbs replied flatly.

"I wasn't going to," Tony argued. "I was so focused on getting her healthy and home that it hadn't even crossed my mind."

Tim cut in confidently. "There have been a number of malpractice issues in American military hospitals since the start of the War on Terror. I think they're hoping to avoid more bad press."

Abby handed Ziva another pita. "And Ziva's record is above and beyond. They can't afford to have someone like her nail them with a lawsuit. Americans _and_ Israelis would be up in arms." Ziva shot her a smirk, still chewing, and she laughed. "No pun intended."

"So Ziver's getting a free ride," Gibbs clipped. "'Bout time. You earned it. What else?"

Tony hesitated, looked at everyone in turn and, then moved over to sit next to Ziva on the bed. "We spent a long time with Dr. Monroe and Devorah today, doing some function and sensation tests. It looks like most of Ziva's paralysis is fairly complete and permanent." He waited, watching each of his team digest the news. "But that doesn't mean it's hopeless. Devorah said she can probably learn to swim and ride a recumbent bike. But as for walking, it's probably a no-go. And that's is ok; we are going to have a happy, healthy, _meaningful_ life."

Ziva batted her eyes at him and his heart clenched so badly he almost fell off the bed. Righting himself, he carried on. "She's working hard on building strength and stamina so that she can try out some really fast wheelchairs and decide which one suits her." Tony looked around again at his team and found everyone was listening intently, heads cocked, hands loose, eyes wide and not at all fearful. He cleared his throat and finished with wetness in his eyes. "And then…and then she'll learn how to use it and go home. Home with me-with _us_. It's where she belongs."

Tim nodded and stroked his chin. "You'll be in outpatient rehab for a long time afterward. There are skills you'll need to build that you won't necessarily know about until you don't have nurses at your beck and call."

"I know," Ziva replied softly. "I am learning as much as I can. And I will call…a…friend. She is like me. She had to learn, too, and she say she can help. She _will_ help."

"That's great," Abby cheered. "And don't forget that I'll help, too. I'm happy to come over anytime you need me. We can play your video games, go swimming, go out for coffee…whatever you want."

Gibbs let one corner of his mouth drift upward. "You helping out, Abbs, or going on a playdate?"

"Both," she retorted sharply.

"This not over," Ziva informed them quietly. "I have long way go. _To_ go. But Dr. Miller say I am improve…improve-_ing_ fast with speech and reading." She screwed up one shoulder. "But not fast writing. I have to learn."

"Take your time," Gibbs cautioned her. "Did you have any seizures today?"

She grasped Tony's hand. "One, small and early. But I am ok. I am tired. You should go and do things. Go to a bar. Go to the…um…you know. It is early." She waved a hand toward the door and yawned again.

"You worked really hard," Tony murmured in her ear. "You deserve a good long rest. Do you want me to come again tomorrow?" He lowered the bed as he spoke and Abby tucked the blankets tight around her legs. She nuzzled into the cocoon and swept a hand around for her owl.

"If not busy," she drawled, losing words to sleep.

"I'll work it out," he whispered, and kissed her cheek.

. . . .

The bar was would have been less interesting—less _intimate_—than Gibbs' basement. With a six-pack of IPA and a fresh bottle of bourbon, they crowded around the hull of his boat. It had been left untouched since Ziva's accident.

Tony shifted uncomfortably. "Guys, this is real."

"What is?" Tim said innocently.

"She's paralyzed. Forever. She'll spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair." He paused to run a hand over his hair. "And she's not saying anything, but I think she's really sad about it."

"Who wouldn't be?" Abby posited, and a heavy silence fell.

Tim toyed with a set of channel locks. "There's an algorithm for people like Ziva. The more athletic and the more confident someone is, the more likely they are to suffer traumatic injury. I've read a number of articles about it in the past few weeks. Did something happen today, Tony, that makes you think she's depressed? Should I talk to Dr. Monroe about augmenting her SSRI?"

He sighed and stared at the label on his bottle of beer. "I don't know. She and I were doing speed stacks—you know, build a pyramid out of plastic cups and then take it down—and she dropped a cup. Then she lunged like she could pick it up, but she couldn't." He paused to take a swallow of beer. "Devorah keeps a safety belt around her waist when she's in a wheelchair. So she leaned down, got caught by the belt, and this look came over her face like...I don't even know…like the world had finally won, you know? Like after all of the pain, and medication, and rehab, the one thing that was going to bring her down was a dropped cup. I thought she was going to cry but she just asked me to get it. And then she told me that I was too slow."

Tim nodded. "It's going to take time for her to recognize all the things she can't do, and probably more time to figure out what she _can _do. Transitions are difficult and I think she's proven to us that she can't handle them very well…right _now,_ anyway. You can't prevent her from feeling bad, Tony. You can keep her from having bad days."

"So what do I do?"

"First of all," Gibbs cut in, "relax. You're taking everything to heart. So she got a little upset—big deal. She didn't have a seizure, she didn't throw a tantrum, and she didn't give up and go back to bed. Second: stop underestimating her. She's going to get her own setup soon and she'll be much more mobile. Give her a little authority. Make her do things herself."

Tony scoffed. "This out of the man who runs to her bedside after every nightmare."

He glared back. "The hell do you know about that, DiNozzo?"

"Ziva told me. She calls you because she's too ashamed to call me."

"She calls me because she's protecting you."

Abby stepped between them and put a hand on each of their chests. "Ok, this pissing match is a draw. You _both_ need to get over yourselves immediately. It's been only a few weeks since she got hurt. It's going to take a hell of a lot longer than that for all of us to deal with it. Check yourselves before you wreck yourselves."

"How many weeks?" Tony brooded blankly. His shoulders arced hunched upward and his eyes grew wide. "What day is it?"

"Wednesday," Tim said flatly.

"Date?"

"November thirteenth."

He threw a hand over his mouth. "Oh shit. I forgot yesterday was Ziva's birthday. Shit, you guys. _Shit_."

Gibbs crossed his arms. "Call her. Apologize."

He fumbled with his smartphone. "She's asleep."

He stared like Tony was an idiot. "So wake her up."

"Conference call," Abby said happily. "Let's all sing to her. Or maybe we should wait for the weekend and all celebrate together. I'll make a cake."

He was already dialing and jabbing the speaker function. Ziva picked up on the fourth ring, somnolent and slurring. "'Lo?"

"Sweet cheeks," he said urgently. "I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry."

"What?"

"We…all..kinda…sorta…forgot that yesterday was your birthday. We're so sorry. Can we make it up to you this weekend? Maybe have a little party, all together?"

"Ok," she replied easily. "I am on speaker? I…listen things in the back…"

"Yeah, we're all here to say sorry we suck at birthdays," Abby interjected. "All of us. We're super sorry."

"But I got gift," she pondered. "I got…_best_ gift." They could all hear the sleepy smile in her voice.

"Yeah, but that's just from Tony," Abby argued. "We all have gifts for from you."

"No. Is from all you. Do not go, ok? I love you. And I am so tired. Goodnight?"

"Goodnight," Gibbs said tenderly. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Me, too," Tony said quickly. "I love you."

"We all love you," Tim added, blushing. "Sleep well."

She hung up with a click and Tony blew out a hard breath. "I thought she was going to be so pissed."

"I doubt she remembered it was her birthday until we said that," Tim replied. "Any extended hospital stay can mess up internal calendars, and her executive functioning skills could use a little work."

"You're so clinical," Abby complained, frowning a little.

He frowned back. "I want to give Ziva the best possible therapeutic outcomes. I think she has a real chance of overcoming the effects of her brain injury."

"Except the epilepsy," Tony interrupted. "She's got a clinical diagnosis now."

"Thought so," Tim sighed. "I think it'll be much more manageable once she's a little more stable. Did she see the therapist today?"

"Yeah. They brought her out smiling, so I guess it the session was ok."

Remembering, Tim abandoned his reply and looked at Gibbs. "Why did you run out this afternoon?"

He shrugged, sanding. "Talked to Eli." The air left the room. "He said Pignatoro's mob ring is no longer a problem."

Abby shook her head. "And what else?"

"Told me to take care of Ziva."

"Well duh," she scorned. "He knew you were doing that anyway."

He pulled the letter from his pocket. "He means it, Abbs."

She read it quickly and handed it to Tony. "What does this mean for you?" She asked softly. "Are you still going to…?"

He snatched and skimmed it, then handed it back. "It means nothing I didn't already know. And yes, I'm still going to marry her. Was I supposed to get your permission first, Boss? 'Cause I didn't know at the time."

"Too late," he groused. "You'd do what you wanted anyway." He handed Tony a fat bank envelope. "That letter came with another check. The funds are in a brokered account with all three of our names on it—mine, yours, and Ziva's."

He didn't bother to ask what it was for. "How is this going to play out, Boss?"

"I need time to think about it," he said honestly, blunt fingers working the raw edge of a sanding block. "I need to make some decisions."

Tony finished his beer and tossed the empty "You want time with her?"

Feeling suddenly awkward, Abby pulled Tim toward the stairs. "Maybe we should get out of here. You guys look like you need—"

"Don't," Gibbs said simply. "This is a family and we're making family decisions."

She nodded. "Ok. About what?"

He drank. "About where this is going to lead us. Abby, McGee, you two have busy lives. I don't think you should be putting them on hold for Ziva. I don't think she'd like that."

"Nothing is on hold except our dinner plans," she fired back. "You're the one who said this is family time. I still socialize and work and volunteer with the programs I care about. Tim still writes and works. There's no hold on anything except pad thai with tofu. You're acting like a martyr. Stop it."

He wasn't taken aback by her words; he'd come to expect such forthright honesty from her. "Ok, then keep on with what you're doing, but don't run yourselves ragged."

"I think I look fine," she said haughtily. "I'll try not to take that as an insult."

Tony seemed to be channeling Gibbs because his own gut began to toss hard. He hoped it wasn't the beer. "You're not thinking of doing anything drastic, are you, Boss? I don't know that this is the time to make big decisions."

"You put a ring on her finger, DiNozzo. Don't talk to me about big decisions. Like I said: I need time. How's the progress on those ramps at your new place?"

He offered a guilty smile. "Yeah, about that…um, Ofek's been busy redoing the master bath, so, I guess progress is at a zero-percent rate of attainment."

"Get my toolbox. Abby, Tim—start mixing mud for the posts. I'll load the truck."

"It's dark, Boss," Tim whined. "The possibility of injury is—"

Gibbs shoved two builder-grade spotlights at him. "Not anymore. Good thing the lumber is pre-cut. I wouldn't want you running a chop-saw at this time of night."

"Let's not piss off the new neighbors."

"Let's not have you breaking any nails."

Tony shouldered an armload of four-by-fours. "You all right, Boss?"

"Yeah," he said honestly, blue eyes soft and distant. "Let's get this done. Let's get her home."


	25. Burning Bridges

**People! I'm so sorry this took so long! Forgive me? Good. Also, because I forgot last time, please thank my friend Astrafiammente and Chemmie for all their love and help and encouragement. Also-also, thank them for being awesome. Thank yourselves for being awesome, too. xo, Mecha**

_You can't just pass around the pain that comes along,_

_you'll go dizzy until you fall._

_-Chris Pureka, "Burning Bridges."_

Gibbs was cleaning up in the basement when Ducky came down the stairs with heavy footsteps. It was obvious he'd put in a long day at the morgue; he was dressed casually in rumpled pair of chinos, shirt untucked, tie long gone, glasses smudged.

"Anthony is asleep on your couch, Jethro," he said by way of greeting. "You will most certainly have to vacuum the sawdust from the furniture when he awakens."

"Or have him do it," he deadpanned, oiling a circular saw blade.

Ducky knew better then to take his gruffness to heart. "It has been a difficult number of weeks for all of us. I heard from Abby that there is little chance for Ziva to walk independently ever again. How are you coping with that?"

Gibbs shrugged. "It sucks."

"It does," he agreed slowly. "But surely you have more complicated feelings about it than that."

He shrugged again still oiling. "I knew the minute I saw her in ICU that she wasn't walking again. Even when the doc said it was fifty-fifty I just…knew. She wouldn't be walking and she wouldn't be back at NCIS."

"I think Timothy has told you before not to make that decision for her, though it will be a long while before she'll be able to rejoin the workforce. How is she coping?"

"She wants to come home."

"That's all very well, but be prepared for the transition to be much more difficult than she anticipates. The world is not as accessible as we'd like to think it is." He paused, watching Gibbs move the rag around the blade. "I understand you received a letter this afternoon, Jethro."

He laughed—a short, dry, humorless noise. "Abby again, huh?"

"She's very concerned."

Gibbs shook his head. "Talked to Eli this afternoon. He made me Ziva's permanent guardian."

Ducky paced, hands behind his back. "Did this surprise you?"

"Nope."

"You have a decision to make."

"It's made," he growled. Ducky still wasn't troubled by his harsh tone. He let Gibbs work in silence for a few moments; he put down the circular blade and went to work with rubbing compound on a rusted hacksaw handle.

"Medical literature compares spinal cord injuries to the early years of a child's development," Ducky said with quiet confidence. "In the acute stages of trauma, a patient must rely on family, friends, and medical staff for nearly every aspect of their care. Patients later report feelings of anger and helplessness, as they had to be fed and turned like infants. And much like an infant, they had to learn the activities of daily living; eating, bathing, mobility, vocation, and the many small things in between. It's a very long and difficult process. However, I talked to a young veteran yesterday who decided to treat rehab as an extended summer camp—he played basketball, attended picnics, made friends, and enjoyed, like children do, navigating the fine line between dependence and independence."

He stopped speaking and stepped closer to Gibbs, who had hung up the hacksaw and was staring at his hands. His chest heaved just once—a barely perceptible motion—and he cleared his throat. "So?"

"So,"Ducky continued, "Ziva has had one childhood stolen from her already, Jethro. Perhaps it is time for you to give her a second." He patted his shoulder. "Goodnight, my friend."

"Night, Duck."

He headed for the stairs. "Good luck with Ziva in the wheelchair clinic tomorrow. Oh, and do tell her that a titanium frame will absorb much of the vibration she'll get on uneven surfaces."

"Yeah," he dismissed. "I'll tell her."

"And give her a kiss for me. I'll be by with an apple galette this weekend. The Braeburns are delicious this year."

Gibbs hung his hacksaw back on the pegboard and folded the rag into a tight square, then took the stairs with leaden feet. He jostled Tony, who woke with a grunt and sat, shaking his head.

"Boss," he ground out, voice gravelly with sleep, "Sorry I came at you last night. I was frustrated."

Gibbs sat on the edge of the coffee table. "Don't apologize. We're a team. We can't agree all the time, but we need to work together."

Tony nodded, yawning. "Yeah. You have a plan?"

He went to the kitchen, where the coffee maker was ready to brew; all he needed to do was press the button. Two mugs sat next to it. Ducky's work, Gibbs thought dully, based on the precision with which the water had been measured. He started the brew cycle and turned around to face Tony.

"I want to do it," he said clearly. His voice was still low.

"You want to be her primary caregiver?" Tony nodded, senses still dulled. "I think you need to ask her about that." He frowned, lost in thought. "But I can't imagine she'll let anyone else do it. Even me—she's shy about stuff."

"She has limits," Gibbs agreed, not really knowing what he meant. "You are her partner, still, in her mind. There's only so much vulnerability she's gonna let you see."

Tony nodded again, eyes a little brighter. "What about NCIS?"

The coffee maker stopped gurgling and Gibbs spun to pour them each a cup. "Retired once, didn't I?"

"And Ziva brought you back. I guess now she gets to take you away."

He took a long drink of coffee. "We need to finish your basement. I can use some of the money Eli gave me to get it done."

Tony blinked. "Sure you want to do that? That's a…commitment." _To put it mildly_, he didn't add.

"You're gonna get early call-outs, work late, be out overnight. Someone needs to be at the house. I'm not racking on your couch."

He grinned. "You racked on yours for years."

Gibbs shrugged and drank again.

"I'll talk to Ofek. What do you want down there?"

"The basics."

Tony ticked off a list on his fingers. "Bed, bath, coffeemaker, work bench. No problem."

"Put in a stair lift. Ziva needs a way to get down there."

He winced. "That's two or three grand, Boss—"

"She needs a way to get down there," he repeated.

"Fine," he sighed. "I'll ask Ofek about that, too. We're putting his kids though college, anyway." He drained his coffee. "You going to the hospital right away? I have an hour of paperwork to do in the bullpen."

"Go," Gibbs ordered. "I won't talk to her until you get there."

. . . .

Ziva was still asleep when Gibbs slunk into her room, coffee in one hand and the letter from Eli in the other. She was on her side, hands loose, curls wild on the pillow. The sun was just creeping up, so he settled in the recliner with his coffee until Claudia came in to wake her.

"I'll do it," he whispered. "But you'll have to help with the routine."

"No problem." She slid out and closed the door behind her.

"Ziver?" he whispered in her ear. "C'mon. Time to wake up."

She sighed and threw her forearm over her eyes.

"C'mon," he prodded again. "Time to get up. Busy day today."

She harrumphed but didn't open her eyes. "Abba?"

"Yeah. Let's go, Ziver. Time to wake up. Let's get the routine out of the way so you can go to wheelchair clinic."

That got her. "Ok," she breathed, and blinked at him with big, sleepy eyes. She adjusted the bed and looked around, confused. "Um, Abba?"

He tugged the quilt down around her waist. "Hm?"

"I…I need to go."

"We will. Let's get through the routine first."

"No," she argued. "I need to _go_. Now. You call nurse?"

He punched the button next to her. "You sure?"

"Yes," she huffed, still half-asleep. "I have been learn and I know when I have to go. Means _now_."

Claudia came back fast. "Let's get you moved," she said, and unhooked the feeding tube so Gibbs could haul her into the wheelchair. She whisked away to the en suite bathroom and he could hear them talking about CCs and indwelling and balloons and soluble fiber. He shifted from foot to foot and sipped his coffee until the nurse reappeared and washed her hands at the auxiliary sink. He tried not to sound as dumb as he felt. "I thought she was paralyzed."

"Her injury is incomplete, that's how she still has some feeling and sensation. Dr. Monroe is certain she has some sacral sparing, which is how she's able to learn when she has to use the restroom. It's also how she can wiggle her toes. We'd like to get her cathing on her own, but we do an indwelling at night and intermittent catheterization during the day, just so she can get all the sleep she needs. By the time she leaves she should be fully independent."

He nodded and Ziva's voice came through the door. "Help, please?"

Gibbs started, but Claudia held him back. "Let me. She's not open to anyone else doing this for her. I'll work on her this week, and maybe next she can teach you how to do it. I think she'll do better if we let her be in charge."

"Fine," he agreed shortly.

She put a hand on his arm. "Sometimes being a parent means letting them struggle once in a while."

She disappeared and reappeared ten minutes later, pushing Ziva in the bulky transport chair, who smiled shyly at him. "Better."

"Good. You wanna eat?"

She shrugged.

Claudia was about to go into a diatribe about her nutritional needs, but Gibbs just shrugged and said, "Ok, Ziver, you don't have to. How about a smoothie instead?" He winked at the nurse as he spoke.

Ziva shrugged again. "Maybe mango?"

"Sure," Claudia said quickly, giving Gibbs an imperceptible nod. "I'll put in an order. Make sure you have a snack between wheelchair clinic and PT."

Another shrug. "Ok."

He shifted her into the recliner and crouched so they were eye-to-eye. "What's wrong?"

She looked at her lap. "I did not want you see that."

He pulled a clean pair of yoga pants and a jog top from the low dresser. "See what? I didn't see anything."

Ziva grasped the hem of her pajama top. "She had to help me and you were here. I did not want you know that I cannot, yet. I am ashamed that I need help with…with…_that."_

"No shame, Ziver," he said quietly, looking away while she fumbled with a soft sports bra.

"I am trying," she mumbled sadly, holding her arms modestly in front of her.

"But it's hard," he finished for her, and passed the shirt. He kept his eyes averted. "You need help getting this over your head?""

A tiny smile crept across her face. "No. I might be small hungry."

"What do you want? Anything—just name it."

She thought for a long time while he helped her into fresh pressure garments and pants. "Bread," she blurted. "And cheese. And tomatoes. And tea with milk."

He pulled out his phone. "I'm calling DiNozzo. You can have your smoothie while you wait for him to bring breakfast."

She smiled. "Ok. I need socks on, Abba." Socks were tricky; her feet and ankles were stiff and occasionally painful.

He took a swig of coffee and handed her a pair of thick hiking socks—the only kind she could tolerate. "I bet you can do that yourself," he said. She took them from him but seemed to stall, eyes clouded with confusion. "Gear up, David," he prompted gently. "Let's go."

She blanked completely, eyelashes fluttering, hands slack. Her head rolled on its fragile stem and she dropped her socks to the floor. He sighed, steadied her by the shoulders until the seizure passed, then bent and retrieved them for her.

"Ziver? Ya ok?"

She blinked, looked around, and nodded. "I had one?"

"Yeah. Do they happen more in the morning?"

She nodded again. "Two…two days row. I had one when…when someone here for…I dunno…but Tony said I had one. Dr. Monroe saw, too." She was drowsy and only partially coherent; eye heavy-lidded, tongue thick in her mouth.

He cupped her cheek and made her focus on his face. "Let's talk to her about that. Maybe your meds need to be adjusted."

"Maybe," she echoed. She held up her socks again. "I need do this."

"Go ahead."

As she'd been taught, Ziva used her locked forearm to lift behind her knee, propped her ankle on her thigh, and—slowly, clumsily—tugged on her left sock, then lowered it gently and repeated the whole process on the right side. It was exhausting work for someone with her low core strength. She was panting when she was finished.

Gibbs kissed her brow. "Good work."

She cocked an eyebrow at him and seemed fully in charge of her faculties once again. "Do not waste good."

He smirked back. "I'm not."

An aide delivered Ziva's smoothie. She sipped it disinterestedly and listened to Gibbs' side of the conversation with Tony. _Wheelchair clinic today; bring food. Yes, with milk._ Her head ached—it usually did—but everyone said she was healing, she was improving, and soon enough she'd go home. She watched Gibbs pocket his phone and hoped they hadn't been lying to her.

"DiNozzo's bringing your breakfast," he said. "He'll be here in half an hour. You want to read on your tablet while we wait?"

"No," she replied simply. "I just want to sit."

He bit off a retort—_Well good, 'cause you'll be doing that for the rest of your life_—and steadied her again when she jumped; the aide had come back unexpectedly. He slid the cup from Ziva's hands and ignored her _hey_ of complaint.

"We need to get your weight before you have any more." He lifted her without permission into the wheelchair. "Let's go."

"Hey!" she blurted again. "I do not…" They were already turned to the door. "Abba?" she begged, clutching the armrests.

Gibbs pinched the aide's shoulder, digging his callused fingers hard into the pressure point. The young man stopped, knees buckling.

"Don't you move her again without permission," he growled, furious. "Not hers and _especially_ not mine."

The man, _Joel_, according to the scrawl on Ziva's in-room noteboard, nodded, face screwed up in agony. "Sorry," he wheedled.

"You'd better be," Gibbs snarled, voice still low. He released Joel's shoulder and shoved him aside, taking the handles of the wheelchair himself. "Where are we going?"

"Take a right. Last room before the lounge."

Claudia was waiting for them in front of the scale. She smiled and unhooked the nylon patient sling, sliding it behind Ziva's back. Ziva stiffened and clutched the armrests even harder.

"Not ready!" she howled angrily. "You did not _say!"_

Claudia yanked the sling back. "I'm sorry, Ziva. I'm really, really sorry. We're just off to a bad start this morning. Let's try again." She cleared her throat. "Ziva, I'm going to slide the hoist behind you now."

"Ready," she agreed, and leaned forward.

This was a script, Gibbs realized; any deviation from it sent Ziva into a tailspin. He catalogued that carefully and knew why she declared she wasn't hungry.

"Ok," Claudia said. "I'll undo your belt. Should we let Abba lift you up, or should I call Joel?"

"Abba," Ziva clipped tightly. "I hate Joel."

The nurse nodded but didn't comment on her outburst. "Ok, Abba. Lift her enough that I can pull the edge down behind her knees. Don't set her back down until I have the hardware over the armrests."

Ziva held on to his shirt tightly and he scooped her into his arms. She sighed and he realized she'd been craving the contact.

"Ok, my girl?" he asked against her hair.

"Ok," she said softly, and pillowed her head on his shoulder.

The hoist clips clattered against the sides of the wheelchair. "You can set her down," Claudia instructed. "I'm going to put you under the scale now, Ziva. Ready?"

"Ready," she said seriously, hands fisting the hem of her shirt.

The nurse positioned her under the adjustable arm of the scale, clipped the sling to it, and pushed a button. Ziva was lifted from the wheelchair and Gibbs understood why she complained so often about the hoist—she damn near disappeared when the ropes pulled tight and the sides came up. As everything else at Walter Reed, it was designed for much larger people. Ziva was petite before her injury—his smallest and toughest agent—but now she was tiny, even delicate, with knobby knuckles and protruding collarbones. He pondered their collective loss for a moment, but the sadness he'd been harboring since his conversation with Eli David failed to tighten his eyes and chest. He chuckled internally at Ziva, dangling in the sling with only her sneakers visible.

"Abba?" she called from inside, voice high and anxious.

"Right here," he replied, hoping she could hear a smile in his voice.

Claudia had to wait for the sling to stop swaying before she could rely the digital read-out. "One-hundred-one. You're up two pounds, Zi."

"Do not care until you let me out," she retorted, still hidden in the folds of green nylon.

Claudia pushed the button that lowered her back into the waiting wheelchair. "That's good that you're putting on weight," she said once the clips were unbuckled. Ziva emerged with tousled hair.

"I know," she smarted. "Maybe this out." She brushed at the tube taped to her cheek. The adhesive left welts on her skin that Abby would dab with witch hazel in the evenings.

"Maybe," Claudia conceded. "Let's talk to Ellen first."

"Ok," she agreed. "I am hungry now."

"Good," Tony said from the doorway. "Cause breakfast just arrived."

She beamed at him. "I got fatter." Everyone guffawed and she rolled her eyes. "Back. I want to eat."

Back in her room, Tony lifted her into the recliner while Gibbs slathered fatty farmer cheese onto a piece of dense whole-grain bread and sliced cherry tomatoes into quarters.

Ziva scowled at the plate. "I am not a baby," she scolded. "You do not have to cut so small."

"Eat," he ordered, matching her scowl. "I don't want you to choke."

Dr. Monroe rushed in as Ziva was scooping a tomato. "Hold it," she said firmly. "I want to see you before you start stuffing your face. Tony, put her back in bed."

Ziva unstrapped her fork and threw it down hard. "I am _hungry!_ Why I cannot eat and go to clinic?"

Tony rolled the table away and picked her up in his arms. "Patient," he warned. "You want that tube out of your face or what?"

"Nevermind. Sorry. I lost self-control."

"It's fine," the doctor said casually. She was already lowering Ziva to a prone position. "I want to check your belly and see if we can get that tube out. I know you're not at your target weight yet, but I feel that if we take this out and put you on a low dose of steroids you'll get there faster than if we leave this in and pump you full of formula at night." She palpated Ziva's abdomen and sides, smiling. "You're fine. I'm calling Claudia to help me take this out. No food for two hours after, and no clinic until after you eat. Tell someone right away if you're dizzy or nauseous. You might not feel great for a day or two, but we'll try to stay ahead of you with Compazine and ginger ale."

"Fine," she agreed, waving her hand. She smiled brightly at Tony and Gibbs while Dr. Monroe sat her back up.

Claudia came in with an emesis basin, a syringe, and an absorbent drape. "Let's go, kid. I'm sure you're ready to be done with this." She handed Tony a small tube of antibiotic ointment. "This is for after. Those sore will take a day or two to fade."

Dr. Monroe was already peeling the tape. She handed Ziva the basin. "Hold on to this. And sit tight—this isn't going to be comfortable. Puke if you need to."

"Ok," she said, worrying a little.

Gibbs squeezed her hand and winked. "You're fine," he said quietly.

"Yes," she agreed.

"One-two-three," Dr. Monroe said quickly, and pulled. The tube came out an inch at a time. She paused when Ziva gagged and spat bile into the emesis basin. "Almost done," she said soothingly, and kept pulling.

"How long is that thing?" Tony wondered, arms crossed. He felt awkward and inept, watching his fiancė cough and gag.

"Long enough to go from the IV stand to her stomach," Claudia said, and wiped Ziva's sweaty brow.

The end of the tube emerged from Ziva's right nostril and everyone cheered quietly. She brightened, smiled, and threw up.

Dr. Monroe wiped her mouth and Claudia took away the basin, only to replace it with another. "It's ok, kiddo. It'll pass. Claudia, let's get her some anti-emetics and a small cup of soda."

Ziva puked again, shoulders shaking. There were tears in her eyes. "Um," she started delicately. "Can you put away food? I cannot see it…I…" She glanced at the cheese wrapper and gagged. Tony stuffed everything back in the bag, hands working fast on the utensils and packaging.

Dr. Monroe checked her pulse and blood pressure, then patted her hand. "Hang in there—the nausea won't stick around for long."

She left as Claudia gave Ziva a dose of Compazine and a cup of ginger ale with a straw in it. "Take small sips," she cautioned. "Tony and Abba will keep an eye on you, ok?"

She sipped her drink and furrowed her brow. "I do not need watch."

Gibbs sat on the edge of the mattress, sliding his hip against Ziva's so she didn't tumble into him. "I don't need puke on my boots," he deadpanned. "You ok?"

She didn't take the straw from her mouth. "Fine. Ack, but fine."

He didn't look at Tony. "Ziver, the three of us need to talk."

A heaviness settled in her stomach. She nodded and put the cup down. "Ok. So talk." Her voice was small and he shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Tony moved to the other side, sitting on the bed, holding her hand that wasn't clutching the bowl. He wondered if she wasn't going to panic, feeling trapped.

"So I talked to your father yesterday," Gibbs started. "He wanted to know how you were doing."

"Fine," she interrupted, nonplussed. "I am doing fine."

"I told him that. I also said that it would be a while before you came home. He understood."

"Why you say this?" she demanded, scowling. "I do not care. He left."

Gibbs pressed on. "He did—he didn't deny that. But he still felt like it was his job to make sure you were in good hands, so he wrote a letter that gives me the responsibility of making sure you have everything you need."

"He gave me to you," she said candidly. "He gave me away. And I do not need watch. I am fine. I am learning do things myself."

"I know," he replied.

Tony squeezed her hand. "You ok, Zi? Not everyone would handle that information so…calmly."

Tears burned her eyes but she swallowed and looked meaningfully at both of them. "He is my father, but _you_ are Abba." She paused sniffling. "You came for me. You stayed. He just…came…and he look…and then he left and now _you_ have to…to…" She faltered, shaking her head in disgust. "I will never be same as before."

"We know," Gibbs said lightly.

"You do not!" she snapped, but her anger faded quickly. "And now you feel you must do what he cannot. It is not fair."

"Life ain't fair," Tony supplied.

Ziva dissolved into quiet tears and put her hands over her face. She didn't resist when Gibbs pulled her against him. He hugged her tight to his side and stroked her hair.

"I know," he whispered. "It's so hard."

Tony slid a little closer and wove their fingers together. "Zi, can you listen to me for a second?" She didn't lift her head, but took a breath and looked at him with sadness in her big, dark eyes. "Do you remember anything from the first few days after you got hurt?"

"No," she said thickly, and began to cry all over again.

He waited for her to calm down before speaking again. "Well I lost my shit one evening," he said offhandedly, "and I went out in the hallway and maybe I kinda cried on Gibbs' shoulder." She looked at him in disbelief and he smiled. "I said _maybe_, didn't I? Well Gibbs gave me a headslap and said _get your ass in there and tell your girl we got her six. _Do you remember me saying that to you?"

Ziva squinted, thinking. "Maybe. It was so…hard, then."

"Tell me about it," he deadpanned. "But what I said was true—we got your six. Don't forget that, ok?"

"Ok," she agreed.

"I love you," he blurted. "I love you a lot. I know healing is difficult and discouraging, but…just remember that."

She nodded against Gibbs' chest. "Love you, too." Gibbs said nothing, but tightened his arms around her in a silent gesture of support.

Claudia came back in and smiled at her. "How's your belly, Ziva? Still tossing your cookies?"

"No," she said, still not moving.

"You got another hour and a half before you can eat anything. Want to try some more soda?"

"No," Ziva said again.

"All right, kid. Ring if you need me."

She disappeared again and Gibbs brushed his lips over Ziva's hair. "You need a few more minutes to collect yourself? 'Cause DiNozzo and I aren't done hashing things out with you yet."

She gave him a wary look. "What else?"

"You're going to need some help at home, especially in the beginning. How would you feel if I was the one to do that?"

"You?" she asked incredulously. Her eyes narrowed. "Because of letter my father gave? No. That is not fair. You are important at work."

Tony poked her chin with his index finger. "You're important, too."

She gave Gibbs a hard look. "I always take away from what you love. First Mexico and now…_this_."

"I belong with my team," he replied. "And I'll be with them, whether I'm in the field or at your house."

She was quiet while he sifted through his fingers through her hair. "Ok," she finally said. Her voice was soft. "It is…ok. I will learn."

Tony and Gibbs shared puzzled glances, but shrugged and turned back to Ziva. She was falling asleep, hand limp in Tony's.

"Will learn," she murmured again.

"Learn what?" Gibbs asked.

"Learn be…_yours_," she slurred, and fell asleep still curled in his arms.

. . . .

Adi shoved open the door to the wheelchair clinic just as Tony was lifting Ziva from the transport chair onto a pressure-reading mat. Gibbs greeted her with a nod and a smirk.

"I thought I would be much later than this," she said by way of apology. "Is Ziva having some hesitation about receiving a manual chair? Should I speak to her?"

"Nope," he said easily. "They removed the NG tube this morning. We had to wait until it was ok for her to eat."

She took in the wide smile on Ziva's face and the way she leaned eagerly toward Ryan, the exuberant and knowledgeable wheelchair technician. Nodding once, she spun and pinned Gibbs with a hard glare. She had beautiful eyes—almost golden in color—and they were sharp as a predator's.

"Her father turned his back on her. You had better not do the same."

"I won't," he said simply.

She came closer. "She will have bad days. She will cry. She will scream. She might even hate you. But you cannot leave because she will die. Mark my words."

"I hear ya," he replied. "I'm not going anywhere and neither is DiNozzo."

"Fine," she acquiesced, but the fire in her eyes continued to blaze. "I am going to help her with the fitting. You had better pay attention; there are things that you will need to know."

She sped off, bound for group gathered around Ziva in the opposite corner. He followed, footsteps light and even on the gym-stile floor, and watched them exchange hello kisses.

Adi leaned back and examined the wheelchair simulator. "How many inches of seat dump are you giving her?" she asked the tech.

He made a motion with his hands. "Four inches. She's pretty unstable between the waist and hips. She needs more squeeze to keep her upright and help her propel easily."

Ziva frowned at them. "I am here," she said pointedly.

"I know," Adi told her. "Do you understand what he just said?"

She shrugged. "Small. I know he needs to tilt because I do not sit all the way."

"You have poor trunk control."

"Dev said I will learn," she defended quickly.

"You will," Adi agreed.

Ryan knelt at Ziva's right side. "Put your hands down for me, Ziva. I want to see where your center of gravity and floor-to-seat height will be."

She complied, leaning hard to watch what he was doing. Devorah, quiet so far and taking notes on a portable computer terminal, gave Ziva's shoulder a pat. "Sit up straight. Leaning like that will change the measurements."

Ziva sat up as tall as she could and put both hands on her knees. "This?"

She nodded. "We'll get you measure for a backrest next."

Ryan rattled a bunch of numbers off to Devorah, who jotted them down and handed him a white measuring tape. "Back rest and seat depth," she ordered without looking.

"No armrests," Adi informed him. "She won't be able to get under desks if you're going to put her up that high."

Dev nodded again and took more notes.

Ziva shivered when the edge of the measuring tape tickled her neck, then froze, eyebrows up. "That high in the back?" she asked nervously.

"No," Ryan said quickly. "I'm just taking measurements. Your backrest won't be as low as Adi's, but it won't be up on your neck, either. I'll probably bring it up to here." He drew a line with his finger across the bottom of her shoulder blades. "We want you to be able to balance on your center of gravity without having to lean forward or back."

"We don't want you falling on your head," Devorah added.

"Fall?" Ziva repeated. Vulnerability and helplessness crashed over her like rogue waves. How would she get up if she fell out of her wheelchair? What if she was alone? What if she fell outside, in the cold or heat? Would someone find her? What if they weren't strong enough to pick her up?

Tony cleared his throat, having read the faraway look on her face. She looked at him wide-eyed and he cocked his head toward Gibbs. "On your six," he said lowly, smiling.

She smiled back, exhaling. She would be fine; Gibbs promised once before that he wouldn't let her fall. _Not while I'm around_, he'd rumbled. She'd hold him to it.

"Want to try a few demos?" Ryan asked, drawing her back to the present. The wheelchair clinic was set up like a bike shop, with display models lined up for new users to try out. There were four rows of chairs, all different sizes, colors, and configurations.

Gibbs was walking up and down the aisles, arms crossed, builder's eye sharp in his silver head. He pointed at two on the left and three on the right. "These ones to start."

Tony moved Ziva into the first one but she stiffened, arching her back and refusing to let go of his neck. "No," she said tightly. "I do not like this one."

He pulled her up immediately and held her in his lap until Ryan pushed the second one forward and set the brakes. She sat for longer, but shook her head.

"No. Too…too…something. I feel mixed."

He picked her up again, balancing her weight on the top of his thighs. She snuggled up close, brushing their cheeks together, and goosebumps rose on his skin. He put a sneaky kiss on her cheek before Ryan came over with the third demo.

"Here, Ziva. Take this one for a spin."

This time she actually let go of Tony's neck. "I do not know how," she stated simply.

Devorah and Adi coached her through a proper stroke cycle and followed along as she rolled from one corner to another. Adi taught her how to flick her wrists and turn before she rammed her knees against the far wall.

"_Sabra_!" Dev called. "What do you think about that one?"

"I want try the others just in case," she pondered aloud. "Maybe one is better for me."

Tony transferred her into a fourth chair and she lit up, grinning and nodding. "This," she announced, shifting herself back and forth. "I like this best."

Ryan looked a little nervous. "That's a custom titanium build. Most insurance companies don't cover that—not for a first chair, anyway."

Gibbs nearly snarled. "Ziva gets what she wants," he warned.

The tech didn't need a rabid father on his hands. "Ok," he said, hands up. "I'll call one of their reps to come out tomorrow morning and do the CAD for her. Then they'll need ten days to build and ship it."

Ziva deflated. "Ten days? That is forever."

"You can use that one until yours comes. There's another demo in the back. We'll get you on your own cushion in the meantime. Come," Devorah motioned to the back wall. "Pick out which one you like best."

She followed, ignoring the fatigue in her hands and eyes, and selected a composite cushion with a soft neoprene cover. Tony picked her up so Dev could switch the demo for the permanent one.

"Nice," she mumbled, poking at the corner that stuck out behind her left hip.

"Very," Devorah agreed. "You've chosen only high-grade stuff so far."

"She deserves the best," Gibbs said tightly.

Adi recognized the anxiety and tension in his posture. "She will be ok," she said lowly, and put her hand on his. "She is adjusting fast and happy to have some freedom. You do not need to be so nervous."

"Can't help it," he replied easily. "She's barely been out of my sight for six weeks."

"She isn't yet out of your sight and she may not be for a long time. Relax. Let her be happy."

Ziva was circling the edges of the room, practicing her stroke pattern. Devorah and Adi worked with her on starting, stopping, how to set and unlock the brakes and she smiled and smiled, thrilled to be moving independently. She made a tight circle around Adi and Gibbs and came up short on his right side. Leaning a little, she rested her head on his hip.

"I am tired, Abba," she said lowly. "I might need back for a rest."

He twirled her ponytail around in his hand. "Ok. Think you can make it back on your own?"

"I put integrated push handles on your order, _sabra_," Devorah interrupted. "That demo doesn't have them. Let me put some on before you go."

Ziva prickled. "No. I will do it myself."

"You can," Dev agreed mildly. "But your stamina is pretty low. You'll need help once in a while, and fold-down handles aren't strong enough to bump you over curbs or uneven ground. I'll order the integrated ones and we can have them removed when you get stronger."

Ziva rolled right up to her, face red in rage. "You take everything from me," she growled.

Devorah stared back, unruffled. "Show me what you can do and I'll cancel the order."

She slumped, exhausted, and tears welled. "I am sorry," she said stiffly. "I lost self-control."

"I know. Like I said before—use the anger, don't abuse it. You look beat. Let's do an evening session in the gym. You, me, Abba, and Tony, after dinner."

Ziva wiped her eyes and nodded. "I want to swim."

"You have a suit?"

"No," she lamented.

Devorah shrugged. "So we'll do that another day."

She shook her head. "No, I want to swim. I will call Abby. Maybe she can bring for me."

"Check with her. If not, we can work on independent transfers."

Ziva nodded. "I need lunch and rest."

"I'll go back with you. I want to see how you handle going all the way back to the sixth floor."

She bid Adi goodbye, who promised to return the next day to oversee the design of Ziva's custom chair. "It is a good company," she praised. "I will help the rep and make sure you get exactly what you want."

Ziva blushed. "Thank you. I do not know how repay you."

Adi kissed her cheek. "Not necessary. You are paying my boys' tuition."

Gibbs held the door open. "Let's go, Ziver. You need to eat and get to bed if we're doing a night session."

She rolled out, blinking in the hallway light. It seemed so _far_ to the elevator—around the corner, through the vestibule, down another long hallway. Then up six floors and down another long hallway before Gibbs or Tony would bear-hug her back into bed. She sighed and pushed off, but the demo was faster than she thought. One push got her halfway down the hall, the second the corner. Her entourage was far behind and she felt a tiny thrill of victory—she was _winning_, in a sense. She waited for them to catch up, then zoomed ahead again, turning quickly to smile at them.

"Careful, Ziver," Gibbs warned.

She ignored him and shoved harder at the handrims, sending herself flying down the hall, elated. Grabbing the rims to stop when she reached the elevator, she misjudged and got her fingers tangled in the spokes. The back wheels slid out from under her and she hit the floor with a fantastic crash.

"Ow," she yelped like a kicked puppy. "Ow! _Owowow! Abba!"_

Gibbs, Tony, and Dev sprinted to where she lay. Tony rolled her into Gibbs arms while Devorah sat the wheelchair back up.

"I can't believe that happened," she rushed. "She has anti-tip tubes on the rear axle."

Gibbs held Ziva tight and shushed her while Tony spoke to the nurses who'd run over when they heard the crash.

"They want to take you for x-rays, Zi," he said gently.

"No," she sputtered, crying. "I need to go to bed."

"I'll call Ellen to check her out," Dev said softly. "_Sabra, _want to get back in? Abba can push if you want."

"No," she cried, hiding her face in his shirt.

Gibbs pulled her into his lap and sat against the wall. "Give us a minute." He shushed her again and craned his neck to whisper in her ear.

Ziva calmed down little by little and was only sniffling when Dr. Monroe skidded to a stop next to Tony.

"You took a spill, kiddo?"

"Yeah," she sniffled. "I fell back. My hand got stuck."

"That's awful," the doctor commiserated. "Can I look at your head and your hand?" Ziva nodded, and Dr. Monroe probed around her scalp.

"You got a goose egg," she announced gently, "so I want to do a scan. How about your hand?"

Ziva held out her middle and index fingers, whimpering.

"Not broken," Gibbs said. "She bruised 'em pretty bad."

The doctor nodded. "Yeah. We'll get some ice on them once you're back in bed."

"Ok," she sniffled.

Tony brushed a finger down her cheek. "You're ok, sweet cheeks. Let's get that scan over with so you can eat and take a nap." She nodded and shifted so he could put her back in the wheelchair, then tucked her hands in her lap. "You wanna do it yourself?" he asked.

She looked down at the handrim on her right side. "Ok. But stay behind."

"On your six," he said, grinning, and they set off together at a slow pace.

Gibbs stood and brushed off his pants, looking up with the doctor didn't move. "What?" he snapped.

"You're a good father," she said, smiling.

He crossed his arms. "I wouldn't have to be if she'd had a shot the first time around."

"Well, you're here now," she countered. "Keep doing what you're doing. It's good for both of you."

. . . .

Ziva returned from the scan with Tony pushing and her hand on an icepack in her lap. She was smiling, though her eyes were red. "Hi," she said. "I am ok. I have a bump but is fine."

"No more heroics," Tony added. "They lowered the anti-tippers on the rear axle."

Gibbs pulled her from the chair and put her on the bed, then sat down next to her so that she could lean against him. Tony joined them on bed, propping Ziva's free hip against his own.

"You have officially given me a run for my money, Zee-vah. I'm whipped. I might nap right along with you."

She smiled and drooped a bit, but wound an arm around each of them. "I never had like this," she said quietly. "Not anyone who would be here for...for _this_. I did not know...anything." She blinked, eyelids heavy. "I love you both very big."

"We love you huge," Tony murmured in her ear.

Gibbs just swallowed and looked away. She yawned and blinked hard, and he swept the quilt aside with his free hand."In," he ordered, steadying her with one hand. "DiNozzo, move it so she can lie down."

Tony stood and lifted Ziva's legs onto the mattress. She hugged a pillow and sighed. "Owl?"

He stuck it under her arm and kissed her cheek. "Sleep."

She hummed and faded out, exhausted. Tony twisted a lock of her hair around his fingers, swaying slightly, lost in thought.

Gibbs shoved him toward the chair closest to the bed. "I said _on her six_, DiNozzo." He rolled his eyes. "Tying your damn shoes," he muttered under his breath.

Tony sat, slumped, and put his feet up. "Nice," he sighed, smiling. "You sticking around, Boss?"

He found the morning paper he'd left on the windowsill and put it on his knee, heart light and pumping steadily in his chest. "Who's gonna have _both _your sixes if you're asleep?"


	26. Swim

**It's "Girls Singing Night." I'm a girl, and I'm here to sing for you. And offer you a whole passel o' love. Thanks, as always. **

**Many thanks to Astrafiammante, as per usual, and Chemmie, for...um...being herself. **

**This, too: someone asked me in a very kind! review of "Lioness" if "Zaidy" was Hebrew for grandpa. It's isn't; "Saba," is Hebrew and "Zaidy" is Yiddish. ****Oh-heads up: watch for falling swears. **

_. . . ._

_I let your surround me, I let you drown me out_

_with your din…_

_And then I learned how to swim._

_-Ani Difranco, "Swim."_

Abby poked her head around the door to Ziva's room and found Gibbs sitting in the recliner, sipping coffee and perusing the newspaper. "They gone?" she asked timidly.

"In the gym," he responded without looking up from the newspaper.

She stomped in and flumped her packages on the table. "How long do we have?"

"Twenty minutes."

A long silence lapsed. Abby looked around the room, fidgeting, eyes wide, taking in the high windows, the owl on the nightstand, Ziva's heavy fleece sweater hung on a peg on the bathroom door. The space seemed innocuous enough if she didn't consider the oxygen unit, the night splints at the foot of the bed, the pillows they used to make sure Ziva was comfortably positioned. Her own gut twisted, but she knew she had to give it to him good if she was going to make peace with it.

"You're quitting," she blurted. "You're quitting to take care of Ziva and it just isn't fair." She turned back to the table and unpacked paper plates and cups, plastic flatware, and a stack of brightly wrapped packages, then folded the empty bags. "But I understand why," she finished finally, refusing to look at him.

Gibbs stood but didn't take her in his arms.

She swept her arm at the small room. "If this happened to Timmy or me or Jimmy or Ducky, even you—someone would come. Someone—a parent or sibling, a direct blood relation—would come here to help and advocate and worry and give hugs and kisses and…and…do all the things you're doing! But for Tony and Ziva—especially Ziva—there's no one. She's hurt, and sad and trying to be brave for us, but I know how lonely she is for someone who's going to stick around for good. You have to do it, Gibbs; you _have _to take care of her. Because if you don't, we'll lose her forever and that's worse than losing you at NCIS." She poked him in the chest. "But if you're going to do it, do it right. Or I will liquefy you and get away with it."

He hugged her close and she rested her chin on the tendon between his neck and shoulder. "I'm not abandoning you," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

She sighed tearfully. "You'll still do Thursday night dinner with me?"

"Yep." He tightened his hold on her, trying to hug away all the insecurity—not all of it hers. While he knew he'd made the right decision, he secretly hoped for one last solve to ferry him out.

"You'll still bring be Caf-Pows?"

"Yep."

"Ok," she said sadly, but pulled away, straightened her tiny t-shirt, and gave him a watery smile. "We have work to do."

He didn't return it. "You sure you're ok?"

"I'm not," she admitted, studying the floor. She began to pace, wallet chain jangling. "I feel jealous and I feel horrible for feeling jealous because it isn't fair to be jealous of Ziva." She wrung her hands and began to pace. "Her whole life got turned upside-down. She could have died. Or been a vegetable forever. Or been shipped back to Israel so her tyrant father could warehouse her in some second-rate, state-run nursing home. And none of those things happened, but she still has pain and seizures and she has to work so hard to do regular-people stuff and I can't imagine how frustrating that must be. But," she stopped pacing and held one finger in front of his face. "I'm glad we still have her. And as long as you say you're not going to Mexico I can deal with it. You're not going to Mexico, are you?"

"No," he said firmly. "I told you I'm not going anywhere and I meant it." He produced a Caf-Pow from nowhere and she took it with greedy hands, drinking deeply. Her features were smooth again when she set it down.

"You can't do that for Ziva," she admonished. "You can't just fix things for her. Mostly because it's impossible, but also because she won't let you. She needs to set the terms and you need to deal with it. None of your _my-way-or-the-highway_ nonsense."

"I know."

"Did she ask you to take care of her when she goes home?"

"No," he said slowly. "But she doesn't want anyone else to do it."

She gave him a stinkeye. "Even Tony?"

"He's her fiancé, not her father," he defended sharply.

Tim schlepped in with a big, white box. "It's essential that Tony _isn't_ Ziva's primary caregiver, Abby. He needs to maintain some sense of normalcy in order to preserve the romance, especially in the beginning stages of a relationship. Not that seven years of partnership constitutes 'beginning stages,' but still: Gibbs will care for Ziva during the day, and probably split when Tony gets home from work. Right, Boss?"

"Something like that."

Abby arranged the presents on the bedside table. "So you'll take her to therapy, but what will you do when she's there?"

"I'll be there with her," he replied.

"What if she has a seizure?"

"I know how to deal with it."

"What about when she takes a nap?"

He gave her an exasperated look. "I can entertain myself for a few hours, Abs."

"Ok, ok." She thought for a minute, using her fingernails to re-curl a flattened ribbon. "How can you be ok with doing this? How can you throw away your career?"

He wasn't insulted. "I already retired once," he countered easily. "What's more important—a few more years in the field, or making sure Ziva has a really good life?"

Abby was silent for a long time. "I get it," she sniffled. "But who's going lead the team?"

Gibbs didn't get the chance to answer because Ziva came in fast, one hand on the doorframe. She took in Abby's teary face and backed up a few inches. "Ok?" she begged gently.

Waterworks forgotten, Abby gasped and put both hands over her mouth. "Zivvie! _Look at you!" _she gushed. "You look…"

She tightened the grip on her handrims and lifted her chin. She looked _what_, exactly?

Abby waved her hands. "You look beautiful and strong and independent and just _amazing_! I am so proud of you!" She bent low and took Ziva in both arms, nearly lifting her out of her chair with the strength of her embrace. "Oh!" she sputtered suddenly, letting go. "And happy birthday!"

She backed up to reveal a not-quite-surprise party, complete with streamers, cake, and presents. Tony came in—he'd made a detour for a fresh pitcher of water—and put a hand on Ziva's shoulder.

"You like it?" he asked hopefully.

She felt her face go red. "What?" she gaped. "Why? Why you did this?" She looked at each of them in confusion, bleary-eyed and blank. "I got a gift. You did not need do this."

Abby gave her a hug. "You are absolutely wrong! Everyone needs a proper birthday celebration. I'm just sorry that yours is in a hospital room. Come open your gifts."

She shook her head tightly, worrying a little. "I got gift, Abby. I do not need anything."

"Come open your gifts," she repeated.

Ziva looked at Gibbs, who winked and nodded toward the stack of presents on the table. "Don't make her wait."

Fatigue settled over her like a shroud, but she smiled anyway. "Can I be in bed?"

Tony didn't even care to do a proper transfer. Energized by their session in the gym rather than wearied by it, he scooped her into his arms. Tim pulled back the blankets, and he settled Ziva among the pillows and pulled off her sneakers. She gave him a hard look but he just winked and mouthed _it's ok_.

"Bring everything over here guys," he ordered, smiling.

"Slumber party!" Abby cheered.

Tim put the stack of presents on Ziva's lap. "Open Abby's first," he, whispered.

She tore off the paper to reveal clothes—new clothes. _Expensive_ clothes. While Ziva wasn't shy about buying quality things that fit nicely, these cost much more than what she usually spent. Two heavy tunic sweaters—one deep jade, the other charcoal grey—lay in the box, along with two pairs of black ultra-soft leggings with waistbands designed not to cut into her skin. The sweaters had loose cowl necks and snug sleeves that wouldn't get caught in the spokes of her wheelchair. She recognized the company name on the tag; it was carried by the high-end athletic store by her condo in Silver Spring. Abby seemed to know that her clothes needed to carry some sense of the utilitarian, even if she was no longer investigating murders.

"Oh," she sighed, cheeks coloring. "Thank you, Abby. You did not have—"

"Yes I did. You spend a lot of time worrying about _doing_ good. I thought you might like the chance to _look_ good. Do you like them?"

"Yes." She couldn't seem to keep her hands off the soft fabric.

"Good! There's more."

Abby switched the box of clothes for an unopened one. "This is from me, too."

More paper torn, and a pair of tall boots were revealed. They, too, came from the "yoga store," as Tony called it. Flat-soled and soft suede, they were lined with dense shearling.

"I know you have some sensation in your feet," Abby explained. "And some nerve pain. The soles on these are sturdy enough to keep you on the footplate, but the inside they're soft and warm. I bought them a half-size up, like your sneakers. I hope that's ok."

"Perfect," she praised.

Abby grinned and snuggled in close for a hug. "There's a third box from me, too."

Her hands were tired; Tony had to help her pull the paper off. Inside were two modest, racer-back bathing suits.

"For the pool," Abby explained. "I hope you start aquatic therapy soon. It will help with your muscle spasms and sensory disintegration disorder.

Ziva nodded, shy again. "Thank you. Maybe you can come, too?"

"I'd love to," she enthused. "We haven't had a girls' day in a long time."

Tim gave her a new tablet—one with an e-reader application built in. "It's designed to hold a thousand titles," he said. "I can always add more memory for when you finish those. I, um…I saw your bookcase at home and I picked what I assumed to be your favorites. Why don't you take a look?"

She scrolled through the titles of fifteen of her favorite novels. He'd guessed which ones to upload based on how battered her hard copies had been. She thanked him profusely and he blushed.

"Welcome," he mumbled.

From Tony she received a pair of diamond earrings—simple studs, the stones cut to match her ring. Her jaw dropped and she stuttered, embarrassed, until Abby took the box from her hand and put them in.

"Beautiful, sweet cheeks," Tony cooed.

She knew from the appreciative look in his eye that it was true.

Gibbs got her a new Magen David pendant; hers had been lost when they'd cut off her clothes in the emergency room. The back of the star was inscribed. _For my daughter_, it read along the fragile axis, _Love, Abba_.

"Put on," she demanded of Tony, and sighed when it joined the ring on the length of black cord. They hung together at the hollow of her throat.

There was cake; a specialty of the Israeli bakery in Chevy Chase—vanilla cake with pistachio and apricot icing—and Ziva exclaimed over how they knew it was her favorite. The piece Gibbs slid in front of her disappeared quickly. He cut her a second and it, too disappeared.

Tim shrugged. "We cleaned out your apartment. We couldn't help but notice your tastes. I'm sorry it was so invasive…"

She shrugged, too happy in the moment to care that Tim McGee had folded her lacy underthings and packed them into a roll-aboard suitcase. "It had be done," she said resolutely.

Tony, having polished off three pieces of cake and the rose from Abby's, couldn't bear to think about McGeek's hands in Ziva's top drawer. He reached for her new tablet. "Anyone for a game of Scrabble?"

Abby jumped up, only to settle on the edge of the bed. "Me!" she exclaimed. She was so genuinely happy to shower Ziva with gifts, but anxious to quell her feelings of betrayal and envy. An e-board game was a perfect distraction. "I want Zivvie on my team."

Ziva was halfway through arranging her tiles when four cell phones erupted at once. She jumped and knocked the tablet to the floor, sucking in a hard breath when it didn't break. The exchanges were terse, even angry, and four phones were pocketed again. She wished she could've understood what they were saying, but the sudden noise left her rattled and uneasy.

"We have a case," Tony and Tim said in unison.

Ziva stared, shocked. "Ok," she said, letting go of the notion that she'd have a peaceful night. "You need to go."

Tony gripped her possessively. "We do. But I'll be back as quick as I can, ok? You understand, right?" He was frantic, searching her face for approval. "Right?"

"I do," she said quietly. "You have important work. Go. I will here when you come back."

Abby gave her a tight hug. "I'm so sorry. I was so excited for your birthday party that I didn't realize we were on call. Can you forgive me?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "Is not your fault, Abby."

"Yeah, but everything sucks for you right now," she moaned. "I was hoping an evening of fun would make you feel good."

Ziva clasped her hands and swallowed. "It did. But you must work. Go." She kissed Abby's cheek and got another hard hug in return.

Gibbs cleaned up the mess, stacked the gift boxes, and returned the tablet to the bed. She watched him with dark, sad eyes, but held her tears.

"You not retire yet, Abba," she sighed. "I know you have go, too."

"Yep," he replied. He took her face in his hands. "Don't fall apart," he cautioned. "You can unload on me when we get back, but I am not going to feel guilty for doing my job. You got me?"

She nodded. "I am fine."

He left a lingering kiss on her brow. "Bye," he whispered.

"Bye," she said to the closing door, and hunkered down in the blankets. A few tugs brought them over her head, and she screwed her eyes shut, determined not to cry before sleep could claim her.

. . . .

Ziva rolled in to Dr. Hess's office feeling sad and disheartened. She'd kept her chin up all day, through her wheelchair design meeting, four difficult hours in PT, two in Speech therapy, lunch, and a nap. She hadn't cried or made any pleading phone calls, just sucked it up and went about her routine. One text from Tony revealed a mountain of forensics, a serial murderer and a rush to reveal just how many victims there'd been. The number was in double digits and growing.

"Hi," the doctor said quietly, recognizing a pout when she saw one. "Dev told me you're flying solo."

She set her brakes. "Yes," she said to her knees. "Everyone had to left. Work."

"How do you feel about that?"

Ziva shrugged, listless. "Fine."

"You don't look fine."

She shrugged again.

"Tell me about your day yesterday."

A tiny smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "My friends made me birthday party."

Dr. Hess exhaled, relieved that she wasn't going to shut down. "That's great. Did you have a nice time?"

"Yes," she admitted shyly. "I have never had before."

"No one has ever wanted to celebrate the anniversary of your arrival on the planet? I find that hard to believe, Ziva."

She shook her head tightly. "No time. Everything is fast where I am from. It is hard celebrate when everyone is fighting."

"I hope they made you feel special and welcome. Did they?"

Her gaze turned sad. "Yes. But then they had go. _To_ go."

The doctor put her hand over Ziva's. "Are you worried that they're not coming back?"

She shrugged and pulled away. "Small, but they promised to back."

"Have they broken promises before?"

Ziva sat up straight and gave her a sharp look. "No."

Dr. Hess smiled. "That's great. I'm sure you can trust that they'll come back when they can."

Ziva nodded and a heavy silence fell. Sensing she was processing, the therapist ventured forward gently. "How are you doing with your wheelchair?"

"Learning," she replied, looking out the window.

"That wasn't what I meant."

She shrugged disinterestedly.

"You're not up to talking today, are you?"

Yet another shrug.

Dr. Hess stood. "Come with me. I have an idea."

She led Ziva down the hall to what looked like a classroom, with big windows and long tables. She kicked aside a stool and set up a tabletop easel with a canvas board and a tray of acrylic paints.

"Paint me something," she ordered.

Ziva scowled, unmoved. "What?"

"Paint me something," she repeated.

"_Like_ what?"

She lowered herself into Ziva's line of sight. "Paint what you see and paint what you feel. Cora will help. I'll check on you in an hour."

She picked up a brush, but it slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Cora came quickly; Ziva reeled; she, too, was a wheelchair user.

"Can I help?" she asked sweetly.

"No," Ziva replied, blushing. "I just…dropped."

Cora retrieved the brush easily and held it out. "Here. Do you have a specific project in mind?"

She shook her head, uncomfortable. "No, I do not want paint. I will just…wait for Dr. Hess to back."

"It's ok," Cora said simply. She was younger than Ziva, with wild red curls and fair skin. There was a tattoo of a raven on her forearm. "Hold out your hand."

She hesitated, but held out her right hand, palm up. Cora snapped something around her thumb and index finger, then replaced the brush. It stayed.

"It's a figure-eight splint. It'll help you hang onto things until you can do it on your own."

"Thank you," Ziva offered lamely.

"Play around a bit. I'm working on my series, but don't hesitate to stop me if you have a question."

"Ok," she said quietly, but Cora was already gone, parked again in front of her own easel. Ziva noticed for the first time that her fiery curls were streaked with purple and blue.

She had only intended to wait for Dr. Hess, but the room was quiet and her thoughts clear, so she dabbed the brush in red paint and dragged it across the canvas. Intrigued, she did it again, testing the resistance, the play of the bristles across the surface, how the paint moved. She dipped in red, then black to see how they mixed. She switched brushes. She switched colors. She asked for water to rinse, wiped the paint off the board, and started over.

. . . .

Tony didn't know when The New House became just _home_, but it may have had something to do with Ziva's heavy, mosaicked hutch. The glass tiles reflected the light that seeped in through the window sheers and, when the sun was just right, it was a funky, hulking Aegean beacon. It summoned him when he killed the engine and shuffled up the sidewalk.

He was exhausted. Forty-six straight hours on scene revealed a serial killer—a former Navy serial killer—and body parts belonging to fourteen different women strewn around his pig farm. The place was filthy and overrun with pests. The smell of manure was oily and thick, and clung to his clothes and hair like cigarette smoke after a night in a dive bar. He needed a shower, a decent night's sleep, and Ziva. Only two of those things could be found at home.

_Two out of three ain't bad, _he sang, opening the front door.

Clanking glasses in the kitchen alerted him to another presence in the house He expected Gibbs to slide a tumbler of bourbon down the island countertop, but unsnapped his holster anyway.

"Junior!"

Tony scowled. "Dad? How the hell did you get in here?"

Anthony DiNozzo, Senior sent a tumbler of Scotch sliding down the island at his son. "It's not so hard to pick a Schlage. Have a drink. You stink like pig shit."

"I asked what you're doing here."

"I can't drop by and visit my boy?"

"Not by breaking and entering." Tony shed his jacket and dropped it on the floor by the back door. It might be a loss.

Senior glanced around. "Nice place, Junior. Some of the counters are a little low for me, though. You hire a midget housekeeper?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "It's for Ziva, Dad."

"You finally popped the question? About damn time, son. Where is she?"

"Hospital."

He tensed. "She ok? I mean, that tough little cookie can take down a linebacker with her bare hands. I'm sure she's all right."

He sighed. "She's not ok but she will be. Ziva was in an accident a few weeks ago. She was assaulted on-scene. Guy broke her neck."

Tony watched humiliation wash over his father like his own personal monsoon. "Broke her _neck_?" He sobered. "She's in a wheelchair. That's why the low counters and ramps."

He nodded. "Yeah. She's in rehab now. She'll be home in a few weeks."

Senior poured himself another drink. "What are you gonna do?"

"Do?" Tony asked, too tired to be disgusted. "I'm going to bring her home, Dad, and then we're going to carry on with our lives. What do you expect me to do?"

He drew back, aghast. "You can't be serious, Junior. Come on—she's _paralyzed_._"_

Tony's voice grew louder of its own accord. "Who do you take me for, Dad? I finally grew a set and asked her to marry me. I'm not going to bail just because she can't walk."

Senior took a step back, hands raised. "I just want to know what happened to my lady-killer son. Where's the kid who dressed up as Fat Elvis just to get laid?"

He opened the front door. "I put him to bed. You gotta go. I'll call you when I can."

"Junior, listen, Ziva is a great girl—"

"Bye, Dad," Tony interrupted. "I said I'll call when I can."

"Ok, son," Senior said softly. He slung his coat over his arm and slunk like a tomcat into the rain.

. . . .

Ziva jumped when Dr. Hess returned and smeared blue paint down her own arm. "What?" she demanded crossly. "I am working."

"I see that," the doctor said gently. "What are you working on?"

"Painting," she deadpanned. "You say me to."

"I did. Can I see your work?"

She sat back to give her therapist a better view. She'd painted four small canvas boards in the hour and ten minutes Dr. Hess had been away. They were mostly abstract forms in deep hues, and there was a lot of black and blue involved. She'd had to ask for more paint once. The second time she got it on her own; it was no small victory.

"Wow, Ziva," she said appreciatively. "You _have_ been working. Care to tell me about these?"

She wanted to tell her about Kandinsky and Matisse and cubist forms, about the Bauhaus, about abstract expressionism, but when Ziva opened her mouth the only words that came out were, "I am grieving."

"I can tell," the doctor whispered. "Are you mourning your old life?"

She blinked, self-conscious. "My father gave me away."

Dr. Hess cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

"My father in Israel. He taught me to fight and shoot and I went to Mossad for him. He is not a…kind man. He is not bad, but he is not kind. Abba say me that he gave letter that I am _his_ now, not…_his_. You know I mean?"

"Your father gave Abba—Gibbs—a letter granting him custody of you?"

Ziva closed her eyes and hung her head. "Yes."

"That's heavy stuff, my dear. How do you feel about that?"

She shrugged, tearful. "Sad. But…but he came before when I was sick and he look at me like I was…so _wrong_ and he left. I wanted him back. I cried. But Abba stayed." She wiped her face. "I am lucky have him."

"You trust him."

Ziva paused. "Yes."

"I can tell because you're not flipping out about him not being here. Did that letter make you feel better in some ways, because now you know Abba won't leave?"

She swallowed and a tiny smile appeared. "Yes. And Tony."

"They're your family."

"Yes. And Abby and Tim."

"Sounds like a whole new life." Dr. Hess regarded Ziva carefully for a moment, noting how much straighter she sat, and decided to press on. "Speaking of; I asked earlier about your wheelchair. I know it's just a demo, but how are you adjusting?"

She spoke carefully, measuring each word before it rolled off her tongue. Even still, the tears that gathered in her eyes fell, unbidden, down her cheeks. "At first, I could not do anything. It was…hard, and I felt so…scared. I want to do thing self. _By_ _myself_. I do not want to have to…back like I was."

"The freedom is gives you is relative to the early stages after your accident, not to your life before."

"Yes," she replied confidently. "It is not same as before. _I_ am not same as before."

"You're not the same person you were before you got hurt?"

Ziva frowned at her legs. They were atrophying steadily, whittling themselves down to only the essentials. While she and Devorah worked every day to gain back some strength and flexibility, muscle loss was inevitable. "No," she replied softly. "I am not. But I am learning. I will be patient." She quirked an eyebrow. "For now."

Dr. Hess leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees. "You went from being an able-bodied person to being a disabled person, Ziva. Are you grieving for that, too, in your paintings?"

She shrugged and looked down. "Cry a lot."

"You feel ashamed?"

"Yes."

"You feel helpless?"

"Yes."

"You feel alone?"

"Sometimes."

"How do you cope with these feelings?"

Ziva mumbled something, chin resting nearly on her chest.

Dr. Hess ducked to catch her eye. "What?"

"Abba holds me."

"Why are you ashamed of that?"

She raised her head fractionally. "I was _Mossad_. I did not need…that."

"Everyone needs to be held sometimes, Ziva. Me, you, Tony, the President of the United States. Even Abba. Do you like to be held?"

"Yes," she admitted quietly. "I do not feel much, so someone hold makes me…_here_. It makes me shamed but I just…I need it."

"It takes a very brave person to admit that. Remember when you talked about your goals, way back in our first session? Do you remember what you said?"

Ziva lifted her chin. "I want normal."

The doctor nodded. "Do you still feel that way?"

She thought for a long minute. "Maybe," she finally conceded. "I want…I want to be…_whole_. That is different from normal." She rubbed her head. "I need to go. I should eat and do routine."

Dr. Hess opened the door for her. "Good session, and I'll see you in two days. I'll have your artwork sent down when it's dry."

. . . .

Tony's intention hadn't been to wake her, but when he crept into Ziva's room at ten-thirty and found her sleeping under the owl's watchful eye, he teared up, lonely. He wanted her home. While their life together wasn't going to be what he'd fantasized, he was determined to put his chauvinist ideals aside and commit. _Fish or cut bait,_ Gibbs would say. Well he was going to _catch_, slack tide and sunburn be damned.

He shed his heavy coat and kissed her brow until she breathed in deeply and blinked up at him. The nurses left a small light on; she could see him just fine.

"Hi," she whispered, smiling. "You are here."

He lowered the safety rail and gave her a gentle shove. "Lemme in. I'm jealous of that owl."

She grabbed a fistful of his sweater. "Missed you."

"Missed you, too," he mumbled into her hair. "Can I hold you?"

"You are," she breathed, half-asleep.

He gathered behind her knees and lifted her easily into his lap. "Like this," he whispered. "I want to hold you like this."

"You are," she whispered again. "Ok?"

Tony swallowed back tears again, dangerously close to spilling everything about his father. He'd have to tell her, but a dark, cold November night in a hospital bed just seemed wrong, somehow. "Hard case," he evaded.

"Liar. You will tell me. Not now, but you will. Sleep, Tony. I love you."

He smiled and took in her clean scent; soap, moisturizer, medicine, but still Ziva—sandalwood and lavender. "You love me big?" he asked, whining like a small boy.

"Very, very big," she agreed, and slid off sleep's steep precipice.


	27. Sons and Daughters

__**I was not neglecting you! I am so, so sorry! I can tell you about how busy I was, but we're all busy and it's just not an excuse. **

**Props to Chemmie, AliyahNCIS, Astrafiammente, Rebecca-in-blue, and all of your who have sent messages saying, "Where the hell is it, already?!" I owe you more than xoxoxo.**

**. . . .**

_These currents pull us 'cross the border._

_ Steady your boats, arms to shoulder._

_ 'Til tides are pulled—hold our ground—_

_ We'll make this cold harbor our home._

_ -The Decemberists, "Sons and Daughters."_

A single, gentle shove woke Tony. He cracked his lids to find Ziva levering herself upright with both arms. She panted and elbowed until she canted so far forward he had to put out a hand to catch.

He felt dull, gritty-eyed and vaguely senseless. "What're you doing?" he slurred.

She stared back, eyes black in the poor light. It took a minute for her to respond, but when she did, her words were clear and crisp.

"I did not ask for this," she said simply.

He sat up, too. "I know."

"You do not," she replied, supporting herself on both fists. "You do not know. You _cannot_."

"I can't," he said softly. "But watching you struggle, watching you hurt, watching you have seizures, watching you cry and panic—has been almost unbearable. I wish I could make it better for you." He wagged a finger at both of them. "For _us_."

She nodded. "I know. But I did not…I did not want this, Tony. I did not want this to be my life." Her eyes welled and she shook her head, confused and sad. "I…I do not know what to do."

He put a hand on her arm. "You said before you will learn. I think you're already learning. Think of all the things you couldn't do before, but now you can."

"I did not ask for this," she repeated. Her arms gave out and she flopped back, flinching. Another long, quiet moment passed. Tony rubbed his eyes.

"Tell me this…meaning," she demanded suddenly. She sighed and he could hear exhaustion back in her voice. He'd gotten used to her sounding thin and scared. "Tell me I should not give up."

"You should not give up," he echoed. "I don't know why you got hurt, Zi, or what it means, but you have a lot to give the world. You give me something every day—a look, or kiss, or a few words—and I carry them with me when we're not together. It sustains me. I don't know what I would do if you hadn't...if things were...any..._different_."

"Oh," she said softly. "Did not know that."

"Can I hold you again?" he blurted uncomfortably. He'd shifted over when the nurse came in on rounds but hadn't gotten out of bed. "I really like to hold you. It reminds me that you're still here."

A small smile tugged at her mouth, though her eyes remained serious. "Yes," she granted.

He lifted her into his lap and heaved a dramatic sigh. "Better."

She rested her head beneath his throat. "I never liked held before."

Something about the admission makes him chuckle. "I know. Trust me, I know."

"Now I need," she said frankly. "Or I will just—"

"You'll what?" he asked, peering down into her face.

"Dunno," she gurgled, lowering one hand to the bottom of her ribcage. "I do not feel much. Nothing below…you know. And I like when you hold hard because I feel always like...like I am—" she wheeled her hand before her, indicating a long, tumbling fall.

"Even when you're in bed?"

"Yes," she admitted. "Like I am sitting so high. And I am so wibbly—"

"Wobbly," he corrected.

"Yes, that. And I do not know how to stay up. So when you hold, or Abba, or Abby, it is better. I feel like my body is…_here_."

He nuzzled his face against her hair. "You are here. Always. I won't let go."

"I know. But I wish it different."

"Me, too. You should sleep a little more. Unless you want to start PT at…oh-four hundred."

"No," she sighed. "I will sleep more. How is case?"

He snorted. "Sucks. Literally—we were in mud so deep it took a tech's boots off."

She made a face, repulsed. "What you found?"

He hesitated, not wanting to sully their moment with blood and manure. But the look she gave him said calmly and directly that she would've been out there too if DeCroo hadn't shattered her vertebrae with construction debris.

"Well," he started lamely. "We got a call from local LEOs in Mechanicsville—they found a dead woman in a rendering barrel on a pig farm. Guy who owns it was Navy. Next thing you know, we got fourteen dead girls. CSUs are still out in the slop. They're not slowing down any times soon."

Ziva narrowed her eyes and rubbed her head. "Sounds _bad_, Tony. I am sorry. You can conv…um…get him?"

He tightened his grip on her. "Yeah."

She was still, thinking, listening to his heartbeat. "Is something else…bother you?"

"No."

Her eyes narrowed again.

He offered a small, lame smile. "My dad showed up at our place. I told him about your accident. He said—"

She hugged him tightly. "I know what he say. _Said_. He said you should leave. But you did not. You are here, now, and I am here and we will go together, yes?"

"Yes," he said firmly, chin raised. But his eyes watered and he buried his face back in her hair. "I love you," he mumbled. "I love you very, very much."

A sob shook his shoulders, then another, and he began to cry in earnest, clutching her to his chest like a drowning man to a life raft. Ziva cradled him as best she could, shushing and soothing as he and Gibbs had done for her so many times.

"I am so sorry," she whispered. "I am so sorry, Tony. I did not mean this." She kissed his jaw gently and let her breath waft across his neck. He shuddered and sniffed and listened to her hum a brittle lullaby.

The sobs tapered off eventually. "Is that song from when you were little?" he asked, head still pillowed on hers.

"Yes," she breathed softly. "You are ok?"

"Fine," he said after a pause. "It's just been…a lot lately, you know?"

"I know." She ran a hand down his chest. "I am sorry."

"Not your fault," he sighed, and wiped his eyes.

They sat together until Ziva drifted back to sleep. Tony laid her gently among the bedclothes again, drew the quilt up to her chin, and smoothed her hair back. He felt lighter, freer, more confident now that he'd let go of some of his guilt and anger. He bent, kissed her cheek, and tiptoed out, knowing there'd be plenty of things to do in the bullpen until she woke again.

. . . .

Tony returned at seven-thirty to find Senior waiting for him, pacing the hallway and holding an enormous bouquet of lilies and orchids. He groaned aloud; there wasn't enough coffee in the world to prepare him for this.

"Dad, what are you doing here?" he asked, trying not to beg like a humiliated teenager. "I told you I'd call when I could."

Anthony Senior's face fell. "I feel terrible, Junior. I said everything wrong. I came to apologize, but you weren't here and the nurses won't let me in to see Ziva."

Tony tossed his empty coffee cup. "You have to be on the list, Dad. We were worried for a while about her safety."

"Can I stick my head in just to say hello? I'd love to see her. I'm sure she'd love to see me, too."

He hesitated, hand on the door. "Sit here. I gotta wake her up and get her ready for the day. If you can wait half an hour, you can visit. If you can't be patient then leave now. I'll tell her you sent the flowers from New York. Or Connecticut. Or Cleveland. Or wherever the hell you're living now."

"Great Neck," Senior answered contentedly, recoiling at his son's glare. "But that's neither here nor there. Go wake that gorgeous girl. I'll wait here." He sat down hard in a chair parked just to the right of the door.

Tony stepped in and made sure the door was closed behind him. Ziva was still sleeping hard, legs propped up on a pillow to take some strain off her back. He sighed; she'd always been awake before him. Awake and _running_—sometimes eight miles at a clip. Having to jostle her out of bed made him a little sad, but he pushed it back and kissed her cheek. "Zi? It's time to wake up."

No response.

"Ziva? Zee-vah. Up. You gotta pee."

Nothing again.

He dragged the quilt away from her face and shook her shoulder. "Up, Zi. No more playing dead."

Still nothing. He grew worried, paged the nurse, and grabbed Ziva by both shoulders, hauling her off the mattress and into his arms. She came awake with a sharp inhale and a grunt.

"Tony?" she wheedled, eyes closed. Her head rolled against his chest.

"It's me. Wake up."

She dozed, slumped.

"Wake _up_. You're worrying me. Why are you so tired?"

She lifted her head. "You wake up late. Then I was…'wake…then you had to go…" She sniffed and rubbed her eyes with a yawn.

He laid her back against the pillows and dragged over her chair. "You need to take care of the catheter, Zi. It's been too many hours."

She looped both arms around his neck so he could lift her into her wheelchair. "Be back," she groaned, and slowly, clumsily, made her way into the en suite bathroom.

Claudia came in with the morning medication. "She's up?"

"Barely," he snorted. "She woke up a few times last night."

"Uh huh," she retorted. "So did you."

He waited for her to help Ziva in the bathroom and occupied himself with arranging and rearranging her breakfast tray. Finally they emerged, Ziva's cheeks a little pink still with sleep and mild embarrassment, and he set her up in the recliner with a cup of orange juice.

"You should know," he said lowly, buttering a piece of toast for her. "That my father is outside. He came to apologize for what he said. He wants to see you. Is that ok?"

She mulled, sipping juice and staring out the window. "I guess," she said slowly. "But not until I eat and put clothes. And he does not get to say until I do."

He slid the tray closer to her and held back his sigh of relief. "Eat, then. Which outfit today? One of your new ones?"

"No," she said quickly, eyes hard. "I am wait until I have a place to go. I want to look…nice when leave."

"Ok. The usual, then."

She dragged her fork through pancake syrup. "Yes. I think…I think my blue vest, too. But a sweater top. _On_ top."

He paused in choosing between two shirts for her. "You're cold?"

She looked at him miserably. "No, I need my vest. I am…my head is…I need it. And I do not want him see. I am already so…_this_."

He stirred her yogurt. "_This_?"

Ziva sipped her juice and fidgeted. "I am disabled, Tony. My body is different. It _looks_ different and I do not want him see." She ducked her head and put her hands in her lap. "There are so many things wrong. He does not need know all them."

He bent and pressed his nose against her cheek. "And there are so many things right. I love you. Try to eat."

She took a few bites of everything and pushed the plate away again. "Finish. Help me get dressed?"

Tony helped her into clean clothes, allowing his fingertips to graze her soft skin whenever she'd allow it. She put her socks and shoes on independently—but not without bragging a little—and raised her face toward his.

"Ok. I can see him now."

He ushered Anthony Senior into the room and took the flowers from him. They looked nice on the windowsill and went a long way to brighten the morning gloom.

"Ziva," Senior oozed, and kissed both of her cheeks. "You beautiful creature, you. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," she said blithely, but her eyes narrowed and she took ahold of his coat sleeve. "Sit, please."

He sat, angling his knees so their faces were close together.

She leveled him with an unreadable glare. "You hurt your son."

"I did," he acquiesced. "I said some careless things last night."

"As usual," she said tightly. "You are careless with how you love. You are careless with Tony—his feelings, his life, his…you know. That is not right. You hurt your son and now you must say sorry."

Senior leaned back and studied Ziva; her curls were loose around her face, which made her eyes even darker than usual. She was propped with pillows and swimming in an oversized half-zip fleece sweater. She was frail and weak, and he knew, then, that she was fighting very hard against some very steep odds.

He ached for his son, too, standing defensively at the foot of the bed. The slight weathering in Junior's face meant he'd hung with her through some very stormy times. He wished hard that they would end soon and stood, back creaking.

"Son, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I said." He slouched, features softening. "I'm sorry for how I made you feel. I'm sorry for insulting the choices you made."

Tony's green eyes were wide and wet. "It's ok, Dad. Do we have your support?"

Senior looked back at Ziva, who still wore a sharp, slightly menacing expression. "Yes," he said softly. "What do you need?"

"Nothing," she sighed. "But if you hurt your son again I will hurt you."

"Ok," he agreed, voice pitched low. "But if you do need something—anything-tell me right away. _Right away_. That goes for both of you."

She nodded, wan face tilted toward her fiancé. "We are fine and we have a very busy day today. We will see you another time."

He nodded, smiling thinly, and kissed both of her cheeks again. "You are a remarkable woman, Ziva. In every single way."

He left. She quirked an eyebrow at Tony. "Remarkable?"

"Remarkable," he affirmed, and pressed an urgent kiss to her mouth.

. . . .

Gibbs sat in the Charger, head hung low, hands loose on the steering wheel. He'd been sent by Vance to interview their killer's only living victim and it had been a total waste of a tank of gas. Rendered a C2 quadriplegic by the attack, she was ventilator-dependent and living in a nursing home nearly fifty miles from the Navy Yard. Gibbs interviewed her gently, carefully, but Chelsey Denton remembered nothing of Willie Palson's pig farm or the free drugs he'd allegedly used to lure her there. She was also angry and in constant pain.

Her caregiver, a man in his thirties who looked as used up as Chelsey, had to clear her trach before she aspirated her own sputum and came down with pneumonia. _Again_, he'd snorted. She'd had it five times in two years.

"You don't know what this is like," Chelsey had said over the hissing and clicking of the vent. She'd meant her paralysis, the care she needed, the uncertainty of each day.

Gibbs pocketed his notebook, and let his hands dangle from his wrists. "No," he'd replied softly. "But my daughter does."

He'd driven back to DC in brooding silence, wanting a drink, then sat, exhausted and sad, and tried to work up the energy he needed to go inside and coach Ziva through her PT routine with the love and enthusiasm she deserved.

But there was no need. In the gym, Ziva was lying on a mat, propped with a cushion, arms outstretched almost toward him. _Almost_; she was only semi-conscious.

Devorah was kneeling behind her with a hand on Ziva's back. "We were doing fine. She was on the recumbent bike and a bunch of storms passed through. She pushed through the past few days, but I guess we hit a wall." She clucked when Ziva trembled and grunted softly.

Gibbs dropped to a crouch and pushed aside a tangle of curls. Ziva's eyes were blank and blinking. Her tongue clicked absently. He had to swallow tears before he could look back up at Dev. "Should I take her upstairs?"

"Give her a minute," she said easily, and gave Ziva's hip a little shake. "You with us yet, _sabra_?"

Ziva blinked heavily, swallowed, and moved one hand over one of Gibbs. He raised it to his lips. "Hi, sweetheart," he said affectionately, happy she seemed to be lucid. "What happened?"

The look in her dark eyes meant she wanted to tell him but couldn't.

"It's ok. Want to go back to bed?"

She pulled her hand loose and signed _yes_ lazily.

"Ok," he said fondly. "Should we go now, or do you need some time?"

She ground the tip of her index finger against his knee, face screwed up in determination. _Now_, it designed.

He kissed her hand again. "Let me grab your chair and we'll go upstairs and relax."

Devorah brought it over and set the brakes. "You think she can sit up long enough to get to her room?" she asked uncertainly. "I can call the guys to bring a gurney."

He lifted Ziva into his arms, weighing her a bit against his chest. _Up two pounds, my ass_ he thought absently. She was so light still, all fine bones and delicate angles. He looked at the demo wheelchair, then down at her, then at Dev. No, Ziva would never be able to make it across the hospital in her chair, so he shrugged and turned to the door. "I got her," he said.

Devorah shook her head. "Against hospital policy. You can't carry her to the other side of the building and up six floors."

He snorted and gave her a hard look. "Watch me."

She rose and trotted alongside him, pushing Ziva's empty chair as he carried her across the bright lobby and into the elevator.

"You're really ok moving her?" she asked once he'd stabbed the button for the correct floor. "A hundred pounds might not sound like much but…" Gibbs wasn't listening; he had his face close to Ziva's, listening to the sound of her light, even breathing, taking in the scent of her moisturizer.

"She's a little warm," he said once they got to the sixth floor. "Tell the nurse to take her temp."

Devorah flagged Claudia, and together they helped Gibbs settle Ziva back in bed.

"Gimme the play-by-play," the nurse demanded, handing Ziva the thermometer probe. It took three tries to get it in her mouth.

"On the bike," Dev explained. "She had one seizure but kept at it, then another, and then a third. I took her off after the second and she went nonverbal on us."

"Still postictal? That's unusual. Do you have a headache, kiddo?" Ziva nodded after the thermometer beeped. "That's because you're running a low fever. I'm going to bring you another half-dose of Topamax and some acetaminophen. Any nausea?"

She nodded again. Gibbs brushed a hand over her hair.

"I want to cath you to make sure you don't have a UTI, then we'll page Dr. Monroe to come around later. I think you might just be off your game today."

She was asleep when Claudia returned with the pharmacy order, so the nurse woke her and made her sit up.

Gibbs' paternal instincts were in overdrive. "Just give her the drugs and let her rest," he defended.

She pulled Ziva's meds chart off the wall. "No. Ziva is learning to manage her own medication. She needs to take the pills and make a few notes before she can sleep."

He levered himself out of the recliner. "I'll do it."

"No, Gibbs. We're priming her to go home, remember? This is her responsibility."

"You said she's postictal."

"Yeah, mildly postictal. Not incapacitated." She held out a fat marker. "Here, kiddo. Make your marks. You got fifty milligrams of Topamax and two hundred of acetaminophen."

Ziva just stared, uncomprehending.

"Do it," the nurse prodded bluntly. "Check off what you took and the time you took it. It's oh-two-twelve."

Slowly, dumbly, Ziva indicated the dosage and time on the chart before capping the marker and handing it off. She hunkered down in the quilts and sighed, finally comfortable.

Claudia wasn't ready to leave her alone. "You wanna cath or should I do it?"

Ziva looked about to cry. Gibbs shushed her gently and stroked her hair. "Maybe you should put her on a bag. I don't think she can handle it today."

To his surprise, the nurse agreed. "No problem. Let me grab a sterile field so you don't have to leave."

She retrieved a blue drape and catheterized her quickly, hanging the collection bag on a hook on the bedframe while Gibbs held Ziva's too-warm hand.

"No infection and now you're all set. Ring if you need me. I've got the doctor coming down at six, so you might want to hang around, Pops."

Gibbs stroked Ziva's hair again. "Not going anywhere," he murmured.

She gave him a funny, dazed smile and slid one hand across the mattress. "Ow'?" she croaked.

He tucked the owl under her arm and kissed her temple. "Sleep, my girl. Abba's finally here."

. . . .

Tony shuffled sleepily off the elevator, toting a pizza box and a bottle of soda. He'd spent the whole day interrogating their killer—former Seaman Willie Palson—who confessed to killing nineteen women on his farm. The questioning had gone on for more than eight hours, and further investigation revealed they were all addicted sex workers with sad stories of broken homes, displacement, abuse, and neglect.

Abby had cried each time one of the DNA samples found on the farm was identified. She and Tim begged off the evening's visit with Ziva, citing extreme mental and physical exhaustion. He couldn't blame them; they were all run down, sad, and hungry for a return to real life. He gave them the key to his house and a small smile. _There's beer in the fridge and _The Hangover_ in the DVD player._ He'd said._ Go at it._ The smiles he got in return were worth the few bucks it would cost to replace the Oregon microbrews they'd share between them.

Tony wasn't surprised to find Gibbs in the recliner and Ziva in the bed, both sleeping soundly. He decided to wake Gibbs first and shook one of the boots that stuck out beneath a hospital-issue blanket.

"Boss," he whispered. "Hey, Boss. Want pizza?"

He was upright and wide awake in a second, eyes bright blue and focused. "You get a confession?"

"Yeah. Nineteen-fourteen confirmed. Techs are still on scene. Vance thinks they'll be there for months. How was your interview with Chelsey Denton?"

Gibbs took a swallow of soda and shrugged, eyes on Ziva. "Useless. Was too high on coke and PCP to remember anything at the time, and now she's a quad. Trach and everything."

Tony was both dispirited and interested. "What's her level of injury?"

"High. She's in a nursing home in Middleburg. Mom committed suicide when she was on the streets. Father won't care for her."

Neither of them was hungry anymore. Tony looked at Ziva, still sleeping peacefully under her heavy blankets. He recalled how badly her spinal cord swelled after the initial steroid treatment, how she'd been intubated and immobilized and so, so sick.

"She's lucky," he said thickly. "She could've been…but she's so strong," he smiled proudly, "and getting stronger every day."

Gibbs gave him a look. "Not every day, DiNozzo."

His face fell. "What happened?"

"Bunch of seizures. I brought her back here this afternoon. Been sleeping since. Doc's coming at six."

"Damn," Tony swore. "I wondered why it was so hard to get her up this morning. Probably started overnight…but then she was fine when my dad was here."

Tony's presence calmed Gibbs' roiling gut. He grabbed a slice of pie—pepperoni, extra cheese, mushrooms—and stuffed a third of it in his mouth at once. "Your dad showed up?" he asked, chewing.

"Yeah, he appeared at our house last night and we got into it pretty good. Told me I should bail on Ziva. I told him to take a hike, but I guess he drank himself into a guilt complex because he was here at seven-thirty with that funeral bouquet, begging forgiveness."

"I'll bet he was. Ziver was awake?"

"She ripped him up one side and down the other. Made him apologize."

He took another big bite of pizza, happy that the day hadn't been a complete waste. "She's something else."

"I know that," Dr. Monroe said, pushing through the door with a file in her hands. "How are you guys? Long time no see."

"We caught a difficult case," Tony explained guiltily.

"That's what Ziva said. Speaking of—why is she asleep? It's dinnertime."

She shook her shoulder twice before Ziva stirred, sniffling and rubbing her eyes. "What?" she demanded crossly. "Tired."

"I know. I need to know what happened during PT today. Devorah said you had some storms roll in."

"Yes," she said simply, nesting back in the blankets.

"How do you feel now?"

Ziva shot her a stinkeye. "Tired. I say that."

"Ok, Grouchy. You need to eat some dinner." The doctor flipped on the bedside lights and did a quick neurological exam, testing her hand-eye coordination, reflexes, and visual tracking.

"You're a little lethargic now," she mused, taking notes. "How many seizures?"

"Dunno," she gurgled.

"Dev said three—were there more? And you're still running a low fever. Headache, nausea—anything else you care to tell me about?"

Tony had been watching with attention, munching on pizza and willing Ziva to be ok. Something in his fiancée's puffy eyes made him nervous. "Does she look funny to anyone else?" he blurted.

She glared at him, hurt and irritated. "Tony!"

Gibbs frowned. "Looks funny to me."

Dr. Monroe tilted Ziva's chin toward her. "You _do_ look funny."

She glared back and scratched her neck, then her shoulder. "So? I had so many seizure. I feel bad. _Very_ bad."

"Huh uh," the doctor mumbled, still studying Ziva's face. "It's more than that. Can one of you turn on the overheads for me?" Gibbs flicked the switch and helped himself to another slice.

"You're puffy," Tony observed. "Eyes, lips…bad botox, Doc?"

Dr. Monroe rolled up Ziva's shirtsleeves and laughed aloud. "No wonder your uncomfortable, kiddo. You have hives. Look." She pointed to two red blotches the size of Gibbs' palms—one on each forearm. There was another on her throat.

"She's allergic to cillins and sulfas," Gibbs informed her. "Did someone give her amoxicillin or Bactrim by accident?"

"I'm a hundred percent certain it's the prednisone; lots of people are allergic to it, especially people with other drug allergies. We'll switch her to hydrocortisone instead. I'll order you some antihistamines and a little more fever reducer."

"Does that explain the seizures?" Tony asked around a mouthful of pizza.

"Absolutely. In fact, you guys should check for discomfort the minute her neurological activity increases. Even a wadded-up sock can make her reflexes go crazy."

"We read about it," Gibbs assured her. He'd been diligent about reading the spinal cord injury literature and research. He wanted to be prepared.

"I am right here," she said firmly. "You do not need to talk like I am not." She looked pointedly at the table. "And I want pizza, too."

Both men looked at the doctor, who held her hands out helplessly. "I can't convince you that clear broth is the way to go. Eating slowly with prevent some nausea, but stop if you feel sick. I'll leave a basin just in case."

Gibbs rolled over the bedside table and put a slice of pizza on a paper plate, cutting it into neat rectangles. He picked off the meat—it looked too greasy for her—and pushed it in front of her.

"Soda, too," she requested. "I am tired of being left out dinner."

"It's for a good reason," he disputed, but she wouldn't hear him.

"Soda, too," she repeated.

He grumbled, but poured her an inch of soda in a plastic cup and set it next to her plate. "Happy?"

"Yes." She gave him a puffy smile and groaned in delight with the first bite of her slice. "This is best pizza ever."

Dr. Monroe grinned. "Let's make sure we don't see it again before you declare that, kiddo. If that's all you need, then I'm out of here. Get some rest and have fun with Dev tomorrow."

Gibbs kissed Ziva's cheek and trotted out after the doctor. "Hey," he said, catching her by the arm. "Is that all you're gonna do for her?"

She was faintly baffled. "What do you mean?"

"She had seizures all afternoon and when they were done she couldn't sit up or even talk. It was like we were back in the beginning. Don't you want to do an EEG?"

"What's it going to tell us, Gibbs, that we don't already know?"

He threw his arms out. "I thought that you might take this a little more seriously."

"Ziva has epilepsy," she said bluntly, voice growing in force and volume. "The medication can't fully control her seizures because she's brain damaged. She also has a spinal cord injury and Broca's aphasia and Sensory Processing Disorder and vertigo and allergies. I wish I could tell you that she's going to make a full recovery, but I just don't think it's possible. All we can do for her is make her comfortable and that's what we just did. Do you have any other criticism for me, or can I go treat my other patients?"

He was silent for a moment, arms crossed over his broad chest. "So what you're saying is that you're not doing anything here that I can't do at home."

"I can't discharge her," she scoffed. "She can't transfer independently and she isn't fully managing her bladder care of medication regimen."

"And I can't help with that?"

She gaped, unable to lie. "I guess you could, but are you ready for that? I heard about how you carried her up here like a knight in silver-haired armor, but have you prepared yourself, mentally, _emotionally_, to take care of a grown woman like she's a young child? Can you catheterize her if she's having seizures? Can you bathe her if she's too fatigued to do it herself? Cut her food? Wash her clothes?"

"Yeah, I can," he said softly.

She stared at him, arms still crossed over Ziva's fat file. "Ok," she conceded. "I'll give you until this weekend to learn how to care for her. Catheters, medication, therapy schedules, transfers…_everything_, Gibbs. And if you're not ready, I'm not cutting her loose."

"I'll be prepared. I promise."

She snorted and he swore he saw tears in her brown eyes. "Damn Jarheads." She got close and pointed a finger in his face. "I know what she's been through. And If I even catch _one whiff_ of mistreatment—even the most benign neglect—I will have you banned from her home _and_ this medical campus. Do you understand?"

He didn't back down. "Do_ you_?"

"Be ready," she cautioned, unafraid. "Don't make me regret this."

Gibbs dropped his hands to his sides and shrugged. "I won't."

Monroe pointed back into Ziva's room. "Go to her. You were gone for six days and she missed you. A _lot_."

He went to the bedside. Ziva was enjoying her second slice of pizza, hives and all. "You look mad," she said honestly.

He sat and slung one arms around her shoulders. "You wanna go home?" he asked innocently.

She put down her fork and gave him a look. "I have been say that for weeks, Abba. _Yes_, I want to go home. But I cannot transfer myself yet so Dev said—"

"You're going home this weekend." He interrupted.

Tony made a victory noise. "Finally!" he cheered, launching himself onto the bed and planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. "Go, Zi!"

"Can it," Gibbs ordered, but there was a small smile creasing his cheeks. "Listen to me, Ziver—we have to work together this week. Work _hard_ together so I can learn how to do the stuff you need me to do."

"I can do that." She toyed with her fork and gave him a stern look. "Can you?"

He sat back, drawing her against him. "Yep. Start tomorrow?"

She snagged a rectangle of pizza. "Yes." She turned to Tony. "Can you take some my things home? I do not need anymore."

"Sure," he said grandly. "Tell me what to pack."

She chewed crust, thinking. "No, I will do it. Help me to my chair."

Settled, she went to the armoire and clumsily packed her puzzles boxes, a few short-sleeved jog tops—she was too cold for bare arms—and her old sneakers into a duffle bag. It took two tries to zip it shut, but she turned with it on her lap and looked at Tony. "Take home for me?"

"Sure. Tonight?"

She nodded. "Yes. Bring bag back to…tomorrow. And sleep Tony, please? You look so tired."

"I can do that. I'll have to kick out Abby and McBrewski, though. They're watching _The Hangover_ and drinking my small batch IPAs. You gonna be ok if they're hanging around the house?"

She smiled brightly. "Yes. I love them, Tony. I would like them to be…um… in our home. Happy they there. For…eating. Know I mean?"

"Welcome," he supplied.

Ziva grinned sheepishly and tugged him down for a kiss. "Yes. Welcome. Now go home. Watch your movie. Sleep. And come tomorrow at dinner. But not pizza—something else."

"I'm gonna hit the sack. You ok here with the Bossman?"

"We are going for walk and then I will sleep. Tomorrow I start ready to go home."

Tony kissed her again. "_Laila tov_. I love you."

She pressed her forehead against his. "Me, too. _Laila tov_."

Gibbs cleared his throat. "See ya, Casanova. Where we going, Ziver?"

"Just a short walk. I need some space. I need to get use to going…you know…around. By myself."

He helped her back into her fleece sweater. "Where we headed?"

"Top floor. I want to see outside."

He sniffed and held the door open for her. "You have a window."

"That I cannot see out," she retorted. "The um…bottom is too high. I can only see small when I am in bed. I want to see the cars and the people. I have not been out there in long time, Abba. I need to remember." She called the elevator on the first try and bumped easily over the gap. "There are so many things I missed."

He gave her a smirk. "Like what?"

"Fall," she said quietly. "I like the leaves when they turn. I did not see this year. I paint with Dr. Hess and I want to study leaves for it."

He pinned her with a glare. "I'd rather have you miss one season than all of 'em, Ziver."

She blushed a bit. "I know, Abba." The doors opened and she shoved off, bound for the floor-to-ceiling windows of the top floor atrium. She set the brakes and pressed her nose and hands against the glass. "Cold," she mused.

Gibbs didn't know if she meant the weather or the window. "Yeah. You need a new coat."

"I will buy it myself."

"What will you wear in the meantime?"

Ziva thought, but shook her head, still resting on the window. "I can call Abby. You think she will pick for me?"

"Yep," he agreed, watching her gaze in awe at the outside world.

"I need short. All my coat are long and now I cannot…I will give them away. Most are new. Since I came back from…from Africa."

Gibbs nudged her shoulder to break the reverie. "This is a fresh start for both of us, David."

She turned her face toward him. "You are ready for that?"

"Yeah," he said slowly, startling at the admission. "I am."

"Me, too."

He smirked. "Let's try to make this good."

"A fresh start," she echoed, studying the traffic and bald trees swaying against the night-blue sky. "For everyone."


	28. Home is a Fire

__**Confession time: I am not thrilled with this chapter, but had no reason not to post it. **

**More confession time: I do not usually use this forum as a means to "practice" chapters.**

**More-more confession time: Thank you. Your comments sustain me when I feel a little blah. **

**More-more-more confessions: AliyahNCIS. Amilyn. Chemmie. Girleffect. (And all of you!) You make me want to write more, better, faster, stronger. Thank you. Now go read their work, too.**

**(More-more-more-more confessions: I don't usually plug authors. This is a special case, you guys. Let's build a positive, helpful, loving community here, eh? Because there's so much love to give. I hope you get some of it from me.)**

**. . . .**

_Home is a fire—_

_burning reminder—_

_of where we belong._

_-DCFC, "Home Is a Fire."_

Gibbs was alone in Ziva's room, folding and packing the last of her clothes while the rest of the crew went to the clinic to pick up her new wheelchair. They'd been excited, chattery, nearly vibrating with anticipation; Ziva was finally, _finally_ going home.

Dr. Miller poked her head in, all wide blue eyes and nervous fingers. "Hi, Gibbs," she said warmly. "Big day, huh?"

He folded another jogging shirt and wouldn't look at her. "Yep."

"Feeling a little nervous that Team Ziva is going it alone from here on out?"

He nearly smirked. _Team Ziva?_ Since when? "We got this," he replied softly.

"I'm not saying you don't," she countered gently. "But I've heard from other clients that the transition to home is as overwhelming for the families and caregivers as it is for them."

He paused and considered, briefly, the look on Ziva's face the first time he'd catheterized her. He'd inserted the tube as delicately as he could with his big, rough hands, and the expression she'd fixed him with under the harshly blue light was one of regret, resignation, and utter humiliation. She'd shut down afterwards, refusing to even glance at him until she was too tired to care and let him tuck her in for a long nap. He felt terrible for the three days since—guilty, sad, like a failure.

Suddenly Miller was right next to him, tapping his elbow gently. "Where'd ya go?"

He gave her a hard look. "Nowhere. Do you have anything for me Ziva needs to do at home?"

"No, just keep her talking and engaged as much as possible. She'll be here every day."

He tucked the last shirt into the bag. "She's improved a lot lately," he said, but what he meant was _Good work_.

"She _wants_ to improve. She works very hard." She paused to take a breath. "For you."

Gibbs scoffed. "I'm sure."

"She loves you," she argued quietly. "She wants you to be proud of her."

Her words hit him like a fist in the gut. "I had to learn how to cath her," he admitted. "And she wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the day."

"Can you blame her? She knows you expect independence. To need you to do that…"

He put the bag on the floor and re-folded the quilt into a neat rectangle. Petra held another bag open so he could slide it in. "You think I'm pushing her too hard?" he asked.

She thought for a minute. "I think you are her father. Until you prove otherwise, I'm going to assume you know best. Have a safe trip home. Tell Ziva I'll see her on Monday."

. . . .

"Cool, Zi," Tony said, smiling broadly. "That thing is very, _very_ cool."

Ziva, also grinning, was balanced on a long bench in the wheelchair clinic; Abby bolstered her on one side and Tony on the other. In front of her was her new wheelchair. She inspected it carefully and with tremendous pride. _She _had chosen the racing tires and extra-fat handrims, _she'd _chosen the spring-loaded caster forks and color combination. Ryan told her it was an expression—an extension—of herself, and she wanted it to reflect her understated style and no-nonsense personality. If_ I'm going to be in a chair_, she'd told Ryan and Adi haltingly, _it had better be fast_. _Sleek. Tough.__  
><em>

And it _was_. The demo was quick and responsive, but h_er_ chair, with it's brushed titanium finish and blue-anodized details, was the fastest of the fast. Only triangular-frame racing chairs were faster.

She'd also spared no expense for comfort. While she needed the special backrest because of her low core strength, she'd insisted upon special ergonomic padding to keep her shoulder blades from chafing when she pushed. The thick oval-shaped handrims would cut down on rotator cuff injuries. And her composite cushion was worth as much as a luxury car's kidskin bucket seat.

Tim, fresh from the bullpen and panting softly, burst though the clinic's double-hung doors and let out a low whistle. "Ziva," he sighed, awed. "Your taste in wheelchairs is…exquisite."

Gibbs strode in and rolled his eyes at the three of them, perched on the bench like three crows. Ziva bobbed a bit to stay up and it made his gut twist harder. "You gonna let me put you in that thing or what, David?"

She nodded, still smiling, and leaned against him. "Ready," she said seriously.

He didn't need both arms to lift her off the bench and into the wheelchair. She pushed him away and lifted her feet onto the footplate herself.

Tony moved next to Tim, who wore a new sport coat and striped shirt. Apparently he felt the need to dress for the occasion.

"Pretty cool, huh, McSpeedy?"

"Yeah. The hardware she chose is usually for racing chairs. I wonder how she got Ryan and Devorah to agree to such sophisticated stuff. It's only her first—usually they go with something pretty standard."

"That's not standard," Abby interrupted. "That is a Ti-Three. It's not scheduled for nationwide release until this coming spring. The frame is an inch smaller all around than its predecessors. An inch might not seem like a lot, but it can mean the difference between accessible and inaccessible."

Ziva took a lap around the room, grinning. "This is…" she trailed off, thinking. "This is the best I can hope. I am very happy with my…my…you know."

"Choices?" Tim supplied.

She shrugged. "Guess so. We can go?"

"Not yet, Ziva," Ryan said quickly. He was measuring her all over, making sure the manufacturer had sent the correct frame. "You need to show everyone how it breaks down for transport. Transfer to the bench and pull the wheels off the frame."

She shook her head. "I do not transfer yet."

"What?" he blurted, blonde eyebrows rising to meet his hairline. "Then how are they sending you home?"

She sucked in a breath, preparing to launch into a diatribe, but Abby put a hand on her shoulder. "Ziva is surrounded by family and friends who are all strong enough to help until she's transferring independently. There is no need to worry." She turned to Ziva. "Come over to the bench. I'll help you move, and then you can teach me how to fold up your personal rally car."

"Ok," she agreed nervously, casting a dark, shy glance at Ryan.

Abby was _strong_, she realized. _Very_ strong. There was no hesitation when she picked Ziva up, no strain on her arms or back when she had to hold on for an extra second—there was no back to the wooden bench so Ziva wobbled, unsteady, until Gibbs instructed her to put her fists down and _hold her damned self up_. But he wasn't being mean; he as just being _him_. She shot him a glare, turning her head carefully to keep the dizziness at bay.

Abby sat next to her and surreptitiously slid her own hip against Ziva's. "Tell me," she demanded. "Tell me how to break down your chair so I can get it in the hearse."

Ziva dragged it closer by the front frame angle and spun it sideways. It was light—she could hold onto it if she concentrated. "Push the pin," she instructed. "In the wheel middle. Then it come off. See?" She let the pieces hang in her hands, then put it back and pushed the whole chair toward Abby. "You turn."

Abby disassembled the three sections—frame, two rear wheels—easily and hefted them a bit. "Wow," she mused aloud. "This thing is light. What's the total weight?"

"No much," she responded vaguely, looking at Ryan for help.

"Frame, wheels, and seat cushion together are twelve pounds and change. I don't know exactly because Ziva went with the dual racing spokes instead of the usual configuration. That takes off a few ounces per side. The handrims are titanium, too, which is lighter than the usual aluminum. Seriously, Ziva, you're rolling with some of the coolest, most expensive gear out there. I'd be proud of that whip."

Tony removed and examined the tires, running a broad finger over the tread on each one. "McSpeed-racer, can we make this thing faster for her?" He caught Gibbs' ice-blue glare. "Safely faster," he amended.

"There's a brand of bicycle tire that she could use on there. They'll cut down on surface friction by forty percent, but she'll sacrifice traction. It's your call, Ziva."

She gave them all a frown and chanced a fall by reaching for the chair. "Give me," she ordered kindly. "You learned and now it is time go. _To_ go." She re-built her chair as she spoke, leaning hard on Abby's shoulder. "I want pack up my things," she continued, setting the brakes. "Dr. Monroe will come with papers soon and then I want to go home."

Gibbs lifted her back into her wheelchair and she set off for the door, spinning around when she realized no one was following. "Coming?" she asked.

All four of them joined quickly, crowding around her as they pressed toward the exit. But something cold and hard settled in Ziva's gut and she backed up, suddenly anxious and afraid. She was going _home_. In a _wheelchair_. _Forever_. Her chest tightened, her mouth twisted, and then she was crying small, pathetic sobs into her hands.

Gibbs patted her head fatherly, awkwardly. "C'mon, Ziver. You're ok."

Abby pushed his hand away and offered a harsh _sh_ before wrapping Ziva in a gentle hug and guiding her head to her shoulder. Ziva clung tight, desperate for reassurance and refuge.

"You guys go put her stuff in the car," she said, looking at all three men. "I'll take Ziva for a cup of tea when she's ready." She went back to patting and comforting as Gibbs, Tony, and Tim shuffled off to the elevator.

Five minutes of crying was followed by ten of deep silence. Abby guided Ziva to the cafeteria and bought her a cup of herbal tea, then helped her choose a table in the quietest corner. It was drafty—the big windows provided little insulation from the winter wind howling outside—and they both hunched over their cups like old-fashioned hobos around a burn barrel.

Ziva stared into her cup for a long time, wrapping and unwrapping the teabag string around her index finger. Abby said nothing, just sipped a small hot cocoa and waited for her friend to speak.

"I cannot run anymore," she finally said. "I liked run. It helped me…think."

Abby looked at her and said nothing.

"I cannot…um…walk the forest. You know…walking…trees."

"Hike?"

"Hike," she repeated, voice soft and strangely shrill. "I cannot do anymore. I cannot run or hike or drive. I cannot do _anything_."

Abby put one hand over hers. "Ziva?" She waited for acknowledgment. It was a long time in coming. "I don't love you for what you can _do_," she said softly. "I love you for who you _are_."

Stunned, Ziva gawked open-mouthed. "Oh," she sighed shyly, looking away.

"We all do," Abby continued. "And we will always. But you should also remember the things you _can_ do."

"Ok," she replied, speaking mostly to the tabletop. "Should go?"

"Yeah," Abby replied, standing. "Let's head back upstairs. I'm sure your things are packed and ready to ship out by now. You excited?"

She nodded, angling her chair toward the elevator. "Yes. I cannot wait to have my normal."

The goodbyes were both happy and teary. Dr. Monroe cried openly and hugged Ziva for a long time. Anya came down and gave her some personalized notepads for making lists of the things she'd need. Devorah kept one protective arm around her shoulders while everyone else bustled about with pharmacy orders and supplies for home care.

"_Sabra_," she said gravely, blue eyes watery behind her rimless glasses. "You had better teach these guys a thing or two. Alright? Can I count on you?"

Ziva agreed, though she had no idea what Dev meant; _they_ were taking care of _her, _not the other way around.

Abby helped her into a new jacket. It was hip-length, the color of an eggplant, and closed with big toggle buttons instead than a zipper. The fit was perfect. The matching hat and scarf made Devorah laugh.

"Cozy little _sabra_. Does Abba have a blanket in the car for you?"

Gibbs nodded and signed the release paper with a scrawl. "Let's go. DiNozzo has the heat blasting."

Dev pointed a warning finger at Ziva. "_Sabra,_ you go in the back seat until your cervical fractures are totally knitted. The last thing I need is you back here because Abba stomped on the brakes and you snapped forward like a bad game of Crack the Whip."

"Let's go," Gibbs repeated.

The lobby was bright and cold. Ziva squinted until Abby pulled her favorite sunglasses from her oversized purse and slid them on her face. The pulsing in her head abated momentarily.

"Thank you," she offered lamely. She could see Tony in the driver's seat of a new SUV, neck craned as he urged them wordlessly out of the building and into the car. Anxiety crept up her throat and she feared she would vomit on Gibbs' boots.

He lowered himself into her eye line. "Hey," he whispered, brushing his rough knuckles across her chin. "Deep breath. It's fine."

Ziva swallowed and nodded, but the automatic doors yawed before her and she couldn't bring herself to go any further.

"C'mon," Gibbs nudged. "One more deep breath and then we're going. I'll push if you need it."

She rolled forward a few feet, took another breath, and rolled again. The doors opened and she bumped over the transition. One more push brought her next to the passenger side door.

"Hey sweet cheeks," she heard him say, though the car door was still closed.

"Backseat," Gibbs ordered.

She backed up but not without shooting him a glare.

He smirked and lifted her into the backseat, then spread a warm blanket over her legs. Her chair came apart easily in his workman's hands and joined her there before he slid into the front seat and slammed the door. Ziva jumped and squeaked.

Tony winked at her, left hand still on the steering wheel. "Let's blow this popsicle stand," he said grandly.

Ziva couldn't make the buzzing in her ears go away. "McGee and Abby?" she wheedled.

"In his car," Gibbs promised gruffly.

It wasn't enough. "They meet us home?" she worried, picking at the new callus on the heel of her hand.

He reached back and grabbed her arm. "Yes," he said seriously, making hard and deliberate eye contact. "They're meeting us at home."

She nodded sheepishly.

They pulled out of the hospital's wide, circular driveway and Ziva took in the scenery like a tourist on an exotic island. The wet trees and sidewalks seemed a little foreign and the traffic too fast and urgent. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, still a bit nervous.

The car stopped, the engine ceased its quiet rumbling. She lifted her head and looked around, dazed. The red brick house before her seemed far too large and spacious and _beautiful_ to be hers. She pointed, wordless, when Tony came around to help her out of the car.

"Yep," he said happily. "It's all yours, Zi. And mine. And Gibbs', too, but we won't have to let him out of the dungeon too often. Ready for the grand tour?"

She took the ramp fast, half in delight, half in fear of losing her grip and pitching backwards.

Tony swung open the front door and she went in slowly, coming to a stop on the stone flag entryway. He divested her of her hat and scarf, waiting for exclamations over the beautiful golden teak floor he'd installed or the muted color he'd chosen for the walls. Maybe over the new sofa and loveseat he'd purchased from a high-end retailer. Maybe she'd go crazy over the kitchen first.

He was dead wrong.

"My shelf!" she cried, making a beeline for the mosaic hutch. "It is here! Thank you, Tony. I miss it. _Miss-ed_." She ran her fingers over the beveled edge and poked at a few of the tiles to be sure he hadn't knocked any loose.

"You're welcome," he replied. "What about the rest of this joint?"

She looked around, confused, before breaking into a smile. It was a wide-open expression, joyful and calm. He hadn't seen her look like that in months.

"Tony," she sighed, one hand going over her mouth. "It is…I cannot…" she shook her head. "How you did this? With Ofek? It is…it is _everything_." She looked at him imploringly. "It is our home."

She hugged him tightly and he buried his face in her hair. "I am so glad you're here."

Ziva pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Me, too. Help Abba? You left him with all things."

Tony trotted out the door to help, but Gibbs had already brought in bags and boxes of her clothes and supplies and piled them on the entryway floor. "Get yourself organized, Ziver," he ordered quietly. "After Tony finishes his nickel tour."

Tony grinned again and showed her the kitchen first, demonstrating how it was fully accessible for both of them. He showed off the home theater she'd given him, the guest bath with it's luxury shower and teak bench, the small exercise room so she could do PT at home, and then their bedroom.

"Oh," she sighed again. "Tony, this is…this is just for us. How perfect."

It _was_ perfect, with deep mauve walls and structured furniture. The bed was low so she could get into it by herself and the mattress was memory foam so she didn't get pressure sores. She tested it with one hand and smiled drowsily. "I cannot wait sleep here. With you."

Tony's boxers tightened. "Me, too," he divulged hastily. "Um…are you…ready…_healthy_ enough for...?"

She winked and tugged him down for a chaste kiss. "Talk later, Tony."

"Ok, later," he agreed too fast. "Check out your bathroom." He flipped on the lights for her. "I put in a fully accessible soaking tub and safety rails. Adi had a lot to say about this room. She uh…well, you know. Your program is super important to keeping you healthy and happy, and that's all I really want."

Ziva nodded and bit her lip. "What else?" she asked.

"Did you see the pool?"

"Did you show me?" she challenged.

They retracted their steps, but an empty room across from theirs made her pause with a hand on the doorframe. "What this, Tony?"

He wasn't sure how to answer her. "Empty, for now. Guest room, maybe?"

Ziva shook her head, eyes wandering. "No. I…I want…save it."

"For?"

She paused, breathing lightly. "A child."

He fidgeted, at a loss for words. Could he have that hope? Did he want to? "Zi, I know we've got some infertility stuff goin' on—"

"_I_ do," she said tightly. "I cannot have a child. It is _me_, Tony, not _you_. But that is not talk for now. Show me the pool. Please."

He led her across the kitchen, into the laundry room and out a door, where the pool sparkled under its glass enclosure. It was hot—a combination of the water heater and the light amplified by the glass roof—and sweat beaded at Tony's hairline immediately.

"It's warm in here," he warned.

She rolled over the threshold and sighed. "Is _perfect_," she stated simply. "I cannot wait swim there."

He frowned; losing words meant she was flagging quickly. "Tomorrow," he promised. "Dev gave me a little workout to do with you. Some floating, some paddling, maybe standing up if you can handle it. Sound good?"

She was silent for a while and he grew nervous, wondering if she was having a seizure. She'd had only one that morning. "Zi?" he asked. "You wanna go back in? McChauffer and Abby are here."

She went ahead of him to the living room, where Abby scooped her into a tight hug. "Ooh," she groaned, squeezing hard. "How's the new place? You like?"

"I _love_," she amplified.

Abby handed Tony two paper shopping bags. "Lunch," she said. "Go unpack it and we'll eat together."

Tim brought food from a Lebanese deli in Silver Spring and everyone sat down to chicken shewarma and kabobs on paper plates. Ziva ate two helpings of chopped salad with her meal, complimenting McGee on finding her favorite comfort food for after a hard case. Everyone smiled uneasily, not sure how to discuss her life pre-injury. She rolled her eyes at their nerves.

"I had a whole life _before_. You can talk it. I am not going to cry."

They all blew out matching breaths. Tim cut his lamb kabob into eight even squares. "I don't want you to feel left out," he admitted shyly. "I don't want you to feel like you're not included in what we do."

"I'm not," she said frankly. "I am here and you are at work. It cannot be helped. But do not…um…leave out things. I want to hear. I want to know what is happen while I am here or with Dev and Petra."

Tim chewed one of his squares of meat. "Want to hear about the Palson case?"

She made a face. "At lunch, McGee?" Tony and Abby chuckled. Tim turned red.

The doorbell rang and Ziva upset her glass of water, sloshing it over the edge. Tony blotted it up with a napkin while Gibbs answered the door.

"Jethro," Ducky greeted happily. "Welcome home. I was told to visit a bit with dear Ziva. Might I come in?"

Gibbs was already leading him to the dining area, ordering Tony to find a plate and an extra chair. Ducky took a detour to give Ziva a peck on the cheek.

"Welcome to your beautiful home. How is your day?"

She unstrapped her fork and put it beside her empty plate. "Good, so fa—" Her response was cut short by a yawn.

Abby grinned. "Uh oh." Gibbs reached for Ziva's plate, but she stopped him. "I got it. You do the Abba-thing. Sleep tight, Zivvie."

Ziva shook her head, eyes dull. "No yet. Ducky just got…got _here._"

Gibbs was having none of her reasoning; he was worried she'd get overtired and have a seizure. He wasn't yet prepared for that to happen without medical staff around to help. "Bed—let's go," he commanded.

She begrudgingly unlocked the brakes and turned down the hallway, but not before shooting him a death glare. "Am not a child," she muttered under her breath.

His only response was a glare that matched hers.

Ducky took his arm, lunch forgotten. "Jethro, let me help you get Ziva settled. I'd like to ask you both few questions about her general health."

Gibbs just shrugged and gave Abby nonverbal instructions to clean up when everyone was finished. She saluted and winked.

Ziva used the restroom while Ducky turned down the bed and arranged a glass of water and her tablet on the nightstand. Gibbs paced, concerned she might need him. She didn't, and had even gone so far to lock the bathroom door. He heard the tumbler pins click whens he emerged.

"What if you needed my help?" he demanded.

"Did not," she smarted.

"How often are you cathing, dear?" Ducky asked, ignoring their tete-á-tete.

"Four hours," she replied, holding her arms up so Gibbs could do the transfer.

"And how many seizures are you having per day?"

She doubled at the waist, pulled off her boots, and let them fall to the floor. Gibbs tried not to grimace; her new flexibility scared him. It reminded him of Kelly's first months and how nervous he'd been that he'd grab her too tight or at the wrong angle and her little baby bones would splinter in his grasp. Ziva, thankfully, was a bit more solid, though sometimes he had to use both hands to keep her from sliding out of his grip.

She had to think. "Some," she conceded. "Some days are more and some days are less."

He quirked a smile. "Isn't that the case for all of us. And pain?"

She shrugged. "Same. Good and bad."

He crossed his arms. "And how about your coping skills—are you handling the transition better than the previous one?"

She fell silent, eyes on Gibbs. "I do not know yet, Ducky."

He kissed the crown of her head and helped her lean back against the pillows. "Well then we shall take it one day at a time. Rest well, my dear. I will be in the living room."

She turned over and used her hands to draw her legs up once he was gone. Gibbs stuffed a pillow between her knees and pulled the blankets up. He kissed her temple. "Sleep tight. Call me if you need me."

She patted the bed. "Sit."

"I need to get your stuff organized. DiNozzo left it by the front door."

"Sit. You are so…mad."

"I'm not mad," he argued, holding his arms out. "Go to sleep. We'll talk when you get up."

"Sit," she ordered again, and something in him softened. He sat, hands on his knees.

"You are ok?"

"I'm fine."

She made a small humming noise, encouraging him to go on. He didn't and a long silence stretched between them. She drifted, blinking heavily.

Gibbs shifted a bit, turning so he could face her, and began to stroke her back with slow, even motions. His brow smoothed out as the tension leeched from his neck and shoulders. "I'm fine," he said again, and she made the same soft noise of acknowledgement.

"Sleep, my girl," he whispered, but didn't stand until he was certain she was out. Abby and McGee were clanging dishes in the kitchen but he left the door open anyway.

Ducky was posted by the basement steps. "I understand you have your own quarters in this lovely domicile. Care to show me?"

He didn't shrug. "Haven't showed Ziver yet."

"I'm sure she'll understand."

The stairs were carpeted, making it a bit unsatisfying to clomp down in his heavy boots. The wheelchair lift folded nearly flat against the wall and the doctor praised it with a small smile.

"Living area," Gibbs said flatly. "Workshop through that door. Bedroom and bath through there."

The space was large and bright for a basement—a testament to midcentury homebuilder's obsession with natural light. He'd carpeted everything in soft coffee-brown, hung drywall, and painted the whole thing sage green. The furniture was inexpensive but sturdy and comfortable. He and McGee would go shopping for a television. Maybe Ziva would like to go, too, if she wasn't too tired. Dr. Monroe made is abundantly clear to him that the activities of daily life were taxing for Ziva—so much so that every multi-step process was akin to running a half-marathon. Her words reconciled him to her long afternoon naps.

"Very nice, Jethro," Ducky praised. "Spacious. Though I doubt you will be able to fit a boat down here. What projects do you have planned?"

He shoved open the door to the workshop and clicked on the light. Ziva's baby photos—all his favorites—were spread out on the workbench, clearly in the arrangement he planned to hang on the wall. Some had been framed in rich, inlaid wood, others were waiting to be sized and centered.

"Beautiful," Ducky praised.

"Yeah," he agreed, not sure if he meant Ziva or his work.

"Some of these spots are empty."

Gibbs ached for a finger of bourbon. He purposefully had none. "Her story ain't over yet."

"Of course. The off-white photo mats will look lovely against the taupe in the hallway. Is that where you plan to hang these?"

He nodded mutely.

"I'm sure everyone will love it."

He nodded again, brushing some invisible dust from a particularly complex frame done in walnut and white birch. "I don't want to mess this up," he said quietly.

"Jethro," he replied gravely. "You need to set those fears aside. You are not a stranger to fatherhood. All Ziva asks is that you do your best." He straightened his bowtie. "I should return to the morgue, my friend, and you should take a few moments for yourself. Perhaps you should go for a run. Exercise is known to relieve stress."

"I'm fine Duck," he replied softly.

"You are. And so is Ziva. Welcome home. May you all know only joy from this day forward."

Gibbs followed him up the steps, but turned down the hall to the master bedroom. Someone had closed the door. There was a bag on the floor full of things that belonged inside. He rummaged in it, found what he needed, and tiptoed in. Ziva was asleep where he'd left her, long eyelashes fanned across her cheeks. He tucked the owl beneath the quilt, kissed her cheek, and left again. He did not close the door.


	29. Watershed

**I get so much love, people. I give it back. Astrafiammante, AliyahNCIS, Amilyn, and Chemmie-thank you for all your hard work.**

**(*moves offstage. eats cheezburgr.)**

. . . .

_A ghost of someone's tragedy—_

_how recklessly my time has been spent._

_-Indigo Girls, "Watershed."_

Gibbs dropped that night's doses into a small glass dish and arranged the bottles the blue basket. Topiramate, lorazepam, escitalopram, metaxalone, hydrocortisone—the everyday drugs. They smelled a little sugary. Candy-coated. The red basket was all serious business: oxycodone, gabapentin, fentanyl, enalapril. Even the pharmacy labels, printed with _Ziva David, 11/12/82_, looked a little menacing. They came with warning labels: _may cause restlessness, may cause insomnia, may cause respiratory depression, may cause drowsiness, dizziness, double vision. Call 911 immediately if…_

Gibbs shoved the basket in the cabinet and slammed it shut, making Abby jump as she shrugged into her coat and grabbed her giant purse. He didn't wonder what she kept in there.

"I'm bowling tonight," she announced. "And Timmy is out gaming. But we want to have Sunday dinner together. You in?"

He nodded. "Where's Ziver?"

"Tub. First real bath in months. I wouldn't bother her if I were you."

He pulled the coffeemaker forward and grabbed a bag of decaf off the shelf. "DiNozzo got an eye on her?"

She gave him a hug. "Yeah. I think he's reading her love poems or something. I'm out of here. You staying or going?"

He rested his head on hers. "I'll see what Ziva needs."

"When she's done with her bubble bath," she cautioned.

"She shouldn't be in there," he bellyached.

"The doctor said _limit_ baths, not _avoid_ them. She won't take one every day. And she seems to think it's worth risking a bladder infection."

"I don't." The coffeemaker stopped gurgling and beeped. He poured a mug and left one on the counter for Tony.

"Bye," Abby said pointedly.

"Bye," he echoed, and kissed her cheek. "Have fun tonight."

She slipped out the door. He didn't close it behind her until the hearse roared to life.

Gibbs didn't even have time read the first page of the newspaper before he heard the water drain. Ziva and Tony got into a brief argument about what she wanted to wear—he wanted pajamas, she wanted sweats—and then they both appeared in the living room with steam-pink cheeks. Tony won; she was dressed in warm PJs and slippers. Her hair was damp and curling around her face.

"Hi," she chirped, smiling.

He had to return the gesture; she was so happy to be home, excited to explore the house and all its personalized, accessible features. She was proud of it and proud of Tony. Gibbs wanted to show her the basement but it was nearly nine and she was exhausted. He wasn't ready to take risks yet.

"You need your meds," he said, rising.

"I know," she replied tartly. She rolled her eyes but led him to the kitchen island, where he'd laid out her chart, a pen, a plastic cup of juice, and a small glass dish full of pills.

Gibbs palmed the first pill and braced himself; the process was never easy. "Topamax first," he said softly.

Ziva swallowed it with a mouthful of juice and made a careful check on the grid.

"Lorazepam," he said next. She took it and blinked. Gibbs guided her finger across the row. "Check right there," he coaxed.

She nodded and held her hand out for the next one.

"Escitalopram. Third row."

She nodded again, face screwed up in determination.

"Hydrocortisone."

She blanked completely, shaking her head. The pill stayed in his hand.

"Here," he prodded. "Take it first."

She plucked it from his palm and swallowed.

"What was that?""

"Dunno," she said vacantly.

"I just told you. Hydro…remember?"

"Hyd'cor'zone," she slurred. She _was_ tired—her mouth was uncooperative and the hot bath left her fingers pruned and rubbery.

"Yup. Fourth line. Make your check mark." He pointed at the correct box. She signed off with a flourish and capped the pen. _Done_, she wanted to say, but her words were usurped by a yawn.

"Bed," Gibbs ordered.

She cast a doleful look at Tony; she wanted to stay up. She wanted to be a normal couple on a Friday night. Dinner and a movie were out, but he could see her wanting to watch some television or play cards.

"I'm sorry, Zi. We'll stay up another night. Go cath one more time," he said gently. "I'll meet you in there to say goodnight." She spun around with a flick of her wrists and left without another word. Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, half-empty mug dangling from his right hand. "It kills me to have to put her to bed and it kills me to watch her struggle like that."

Gibbs nodded and swallowed more coffee.

Tony lifted the cup to his mouth but didn't drink. "She can bathe, she can dress if we help, she can cath and eat." He waved a hand. "Why can't she take her meds and write them down?"

He shrugged. "One thing at a time, DiNozzo." It didn't assuage him, though. Devorah and Dr. Monroe told him several times that Ziva's executive functioning skills were fairly terrible. She had trouble planning, organizing, following directions, and completing complex tasks. It took her a month to memorize how to catheterize herself—even still, a laminated sign on the back of the bathroom door detailed each step for her—and another two weeks to learn to bathe with help. She still couldn't dress herself or prepare a cup of tea.

"She'll learn," he said finally.

Tony nodded morosely and they fell into an easy silence. The house had thin walls; they could hear Ziva flush and wash her hands. Gibbs put both cups in the sink and went with Tony into the bedroom.

She was parked next to the bed, skimming a book on her tablet. She looked up, eyes drooping, and smiled. "I am tired," she said lowly.

"I can tell," he replied, helping her pull off her slippers.

They got her into bed together, lifting and pulling back blankets, tucking and re-tucking until she was comfortable with two extra pillows and her owl. She smiled at both of them again and the weight lifted from Gibbs' shoulders. They could do this, he realized. They would be ok.

"I wanted to stay up," she complained lightly. "But maybe not tonight. It was such a…a day."

"A hard day but a great day," Tony supplied. He gave her a gentle kiss on the mouth. "I'll be in later."

She nodded. "_Laila tov."_

_ "Laila tov_," they echoed at her. Gibbs kissed her cheek and made sure a glass of water and the lamp were within easy reach.

He stilled Tony's hand when he tried to close the door. "Leave it," he whispered.

Tony put up a small fight just for old time's sake. "We can hear—"

"Leave it," he repeated.

He shrugged and headed for the man-cave. Gibbs thought about leaving, about thumping down his basement steps and sanding his boat to toothpicks, but the sofa was inviting. So was the beer DiNozzo held out to him.

"Take a load off," he said simply. "We made it. One day down, forever to go."

Gibbs just grunted and popped the top off the bottle. The first draught was a blessing on his hot throat.

Tony flipped on the television, tuned it to ZNN and lowered the volume. It was the same as usual—wars in the Middle East, accidents and incidents on home soil, elections, scandals—and Gibbs felt a bit like the past three months could be folded up and put into a box. The world hadn't changed. In fact, it barely registered that one of its citizens now navigated it on four wheels rather than two feet.

"Hey Boss?" He looked over; Tony was smiling a little. "It's ok."

"What's ok?" he scoffed.

"It's ok to do what you need to do."

"And what would that be, DiNozzo?"

"What you need to do," he repeated. "You have a way with Ziva that no one else does. It's ok to use it."

"What the hell does that mean?" Gibbs didn't look away when he lifted the bottle to his mouth again.

"If we were in the hospital you would've sat right on the bed with her and damn near rocked her to sleep."

"She didn't need it," he argued quietly.

"But if she _did_ then you _could've_. It's not such a huge deal, but she knows something's up with you. She asked me about it while she was sudsin'."

"She's not supposed to take baths."

Tony waved a dismissive hand. "She spent more time filling the tub than she did sitting in it."

"If she has a seizure—"

"I was right there, Boss. Why do you think I had to change clothes?"

Gibbs stared at the news, dismayed. He didn't realize that Tony was wearing a t-shirt and basketball shorts rather than the jeans and sweater he'd had on earlier.

Tony carried on obliviously. "I sat right on the edge of the tub and she splashed me. I didn't want to smell like flowers and Dead Sea minerals all night, so I changed. And Zi wanted to know if you were mad at her or something. Disappointed, maybe. I told her you weren't, so just like, _relax_, Boss. We got this." He surfed over to a basketball game and propped his feet on the coffee table. "You goin' or stayin'?" he asked absently.

"Going," Gibbs said, polishing off the beer. He'd drop it in the recycling bin on the way out. He stood, joints popping, and a small cry issued from the other room.

"Go," Tony said, eyes on the TV.

Gibbs wavered.

"Go," he said again, pulling his eyes from the action. He grinned. "I'm telling you, go do that thing. It's cool. Maryland is on the fast break. I'll tell you the score when you come back."

"Abba?"

He was in the room in two long strides. "What's up, Ziver?"

She grunted irritably. "I am stuck," she complained from inside a blanket burrito. "I am stuck and I cannot get out." She wrenched the bedclothes in both bony fists. "_Let me out!"_

Gibbs lifted her easily, but unwinding the sheets and heavy comforter was more complicated than he would've thought. "The hell did you do?" he mused.

She tugged again on the sheet wrapped tight around her waist. The edge was nowhere to be found. "I am sore on that side so I turned and then...more." He pulled on what appeared to be an edge and her legs slid toward him, still bound, across the mattress. She scowled. "_Oy_, Abba. Let me out."

"All right, all right," he jibed. He flipped on the bedside lamp and rolled her this way and that until the last corner was yanked out from under her behind. She blinked in surprise and burst into giggles.

"What's so funny?" he grumbled, smirking. He tucked her back in, pinning the edge of the sheet between the mattress and box spring.

She laughed harder. "What is not funny, Abba? I got _stuck_. In _bed_. And _you_ had to pull me out."

He joined her in amusement, shaking his head at the absurdity of sitting in bed with a former Mossad assassin, having been called in not to investigate an international crime, but to rescue her from a dangerous and deceitful eiderdown.

Ziva calmed down and gazed at him in the mellow lamplight. "I love you," she said nonchalantly. "I do not think I say enough that."

Gibbs nearly melted at her simple admission and confidence rushed back at him. _This_ was why he'd spoken up. _This _was why and how he could care for her. "I love you, too, Ziver," he replied.

"Go home," she ordered. "Go work your boat. Tony is here. We are fine. _Laila tov_."

And like that she slept, leaving him on the edge of the bed with one of her hands still dangling from his.

. . . .

"Tony?"

_Damn, _he cursed silently. He'd woken her. He'd toyed with the idea of sleeping on the sectional, but knew she'd be upset if she woke up alone. So he tiptoed into the bedroom, making a quick detour to whizz.

"I'm coming," he said softly. He turned off the light and met her beneath the blankets in only his boxers. Ziva watched in the dim, eyes ringed blue-black by the glow of the streetlight at the end of the drive.

"We can talk?" she probed. She was wide awake, oddly enough, and propped herself on the heels of her hands.

He turned over and put a hand on her side. "Yeah. What's up?"

It took a long time to organize her words. "Do you feel…obligated to me?" She asked, frowning a little.

"No," he said slowly. "Do you feel obligated to me?"

A small smile played across her face. "No. I love you."

"And I love you," he replied. "Is this line of questioning coming from…where I think it's coming from?"

Ziva puffed her cheeks and blew out a long breath. "I am healthy enough for sex, Tony. But…things are different. It could take some time to…get it…_right_. We need to go slowly because I need to learn again how…how my body _is_. You know I mean?"

"Yeah, I do." He deliberately kept his tone light.

She set her jaw, resolved. "So if you get…frustrated or…not…_pleased_…you can always find someone else to—"

His stomach soured. "Stop," he said lowly, putting a hand over hers. "Stop before I get pissed, Ziva. I'm not that guy. I may have been at one point, but I want to be better than that. I think we deserve it. Don't you?"

She nodded, eyes narrowed. "Yes, but you have given a lot for us, Tony. Given _up_ a lot. It cannot be fair to…hold you back when…" She paused and gave him another tiny smile. "You have _needs_."

He ignored the sadness twisting his gut and turned on the charm, nuzzling up against her, making her giggle. She let her head fall against his bare shoulder.

'The only thing I need is you, baby," he muttered. Ziva pulled back to study him and he winked, not sure she could see it in the dark. "We can do this?" he asked.

"Yes," she sighed.

"Tell me how," he said lowly.

She dropped her head to his shoulder again. "I do not know," she murmured. Her breath on his skin made him shiver. "Just…slow."

Tony kissed her delicately. "Like this?"

"Yes," she sighed again, and put a hand on his cheek.

He drew her against his chest and lay on his back. "Like this?" he asked again.

She kissed him and gave a wicked little smile.

It was no secret that Ziva liked to be on top. Tony lifted her onto his hips, rolling a bit so her leg fell over his. She jerked, startled, and his heart panged when her head bobbed and she seemed not to know what to do with her hands. Her mouth puckered in fear and embarrassment. "No," she yelped softly. "No. I cannot. It is…I cannot, Tony."

He eased her down. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She wrapped her left arm around his neck and blinked; he jumped, tickled by her eyelashes. "I am ok."

They were quiet for a long time, breathing in the dark, waiting for the world to right itself again. They'd had awkward moments before but they'd both fallen back afterward, laughing and shaking their heads, ready to try again. It was different now; Ziva had retreated. She chewed her lower lip and stroked his chest, lost in thought.

"I'm sorry," Tony whispered again. "Did I hurt you?"

"You did not," she whispered back. "I did not expect…you must go slow, Tony. I am dizzy. And I do not have the same strength…" She offered him a small shrug.

He touched their foreheads together. "You like to be in control. I'm worried that you'll think…"

"I think nothing," she interrupted sharply. "I am going marry you. I must…must…_know_ you. It is not like before. We must make it…_fair_." She pulled him toward her and kissed him hungrily. "Over here," she demanded when he didn't immediately move closer. "I want you over_ here_."

He didn't ask for permission to move atop her and straddle her legs with his own. His eyes were wide and golden in the low light. "This ok?" he asked, panting a little. It didn't take much. They'd been deprived for too long.

Ziva smiled, all desire, all _her_, and pulled him down so she could nip his throat with her teeth. "Yes," she sighed, breath warm on his skin. "Yes. Yes."

. . . .

She woke with a start the next morning and peered blearily at the clock on the dresser. _Nine-oh-four_, it read. Was that right? It was so dark, still; was it morning or night?

Reality seeped in slowly. First it dawned on her that she was sweating—the sheets beneath her were damp—and then her head was _throbbing_. Had she had a seizure in her sleep? Was she getting a migraine? She blinked at the clock again: nine-nineteen. Oh. She had to get up. She had to get up and cath _now_ or there would be serious trouble soon.

"Tony?" she squeaked, hating how scared she sounded. "Tony? Wake up. I need to go."

He moaned something about minutes and threw a hand over his face.

"Get up," she hissed. "I need to the bathroom. I need to go now, Tony."

He sat up, leaned over her, and dragged her chair closer, then gave her one mighty heave into it. She lifted her bare feet onto the footrest and flinched when her right leg trembled in her grasp.

"C'mon," he rasped, slinging open the door to the en suite.

She stared, blank. Her hands ached, her head pounded, and she couldn't find the words to say _I can't._

He picked her up in one strange, lunging movement and carried her into the bath, setting her down on the padded bath chair. Ziva's head drooped as he tore open a sterile catheter tube and inserted it quickly, silently thanking every deity he could name that they hadn't gotten dressed again after making love.

She grabbed Tony's shoulders, embarrassed and ill, and tried to steady her bobbing head as he emptied her bladder and cleaned her up. _Too late_, she thought dumbly. Her vision went grey and then faded out completely.

Ziva was back in bed when she came around. Tony was hovering over her, a stethoscope around his neck. Why was he wearing that? He wasn't a doctor. He let go of her arm, where he'd been gripping her tight enough to grind the tendons together.

"One-forty over ninety-nine," he said, pushing her hair back. "You gotta sit up. Do you want your chair, or should I take you to the living room so we can hang out on the couch?"

She didn't care; she just wanted the headache to go away. Tony recognized her indifference and plopped her in her wheelchair, steadying her head with one hand and lifting her feet with the other.

He held out a pill. "Take this. I already wrote it down for you."

She did and let her hands fall into her lap. He hadn't opened the curtains and the room was still dark. Good. Her head hurt.

They sat in silence until Tony lifted her chin and peered into her eyes. "Ya ok?" he asked.

Mercifully, the headache was receding. "Yes," she croaked. "But no light. Hurts."

"Good thing the weather is crappy. We're supposed to get snow tonight."

Ziva tipped the corner of her mouth up. Snow sounded ok. So did going back to bed. "I am tired," she moped.

"_You're_ tired? Zi, you just scared ten years off my life. I could sleep for the rest of the day." He smiled as he complained, though, and she couldn't gauge whether or not he was upset with her.

She couldn't smile back. "Sorry. I forgot the um…"

"We forgot to set an alarm." Tony shrugged. "I think that was our first AD episode."

Autonomic dysreflexia. Her overfull bladder triggered an erratic response from her damaged sympathetic nervous system. Her symptoms were classic: high blood pressure, pounding headache, profuse sweating, a flushed face. It was uncomfortable, but only fatal if left untreated. Definitive of Ziva, her AD came with a seizure. She was stunned by an intense hatred for her own traitorous body. She'd been turned into…_something _by her accident, and she didn't like it one bit.

"I am sorry," she repeated dully. "I should have…sooner. I…clock…"

"It's ok," Tony replied. He cupped her cheek and made her look at him. "That was our first at-home emergency and I think we handled it pretty well. We're a good team, huh?"

She blushed; he didn't think less of her. He didn't hate her inertia, her burden.

And like always, he knew what she was thinking. "It's ok to feel bad," he said quietly. He still had his hand on her face. "It's ok to cry. Just not forever, you know? We have a really great life ahead of us."

Ziva teared up, but snorted in laughter. He was so damned buoyant about the whole thing. "How you believe that?" she asked, motioning for a tissue. "How can you say, Tony?"

He furrowed his brow. "What else am I supposed to believe? You're home. You're safe. Ok, so there was a little incident—so what? We took care of it and you'll be fine."

"Until next one," she sulked.

He rolled his eyes. "And we'll take care of that one, too." He gave her a game show-host eyebrow and cocked a finger at her. "Are you pushing me away?"

Was she? No, she couldn't—she didn't want him to leave. "No," she replied. "I am not."

"Good. Let's find some breakfast. I'm starving after our nocturnal gymnastics."

She chuckled. "I need more on, Tony." She wore only a t-shirt and underwear. Goosebumps rose on her arms.

He snagged a pair of yoga pants and a clean sweater from the closet. "These ok?"

Ziva didn't want to wear more hospital clothes. "Is there something else?"

He unlocked her brakes and wheeled her into the walk-in. "Pick what you want. I'll help you put it on."

She brushed past a few hangers and chose an off-white sweater to go atop her new leggings and boots. Tony pulled it down over her head and smoothed it over her sides. Something about wearing her old clothes made her feel a little less pitiful.

"This is good," she said sincerely. "I am…I am still _me_, Tony."

"I know," he said mildly, tugging clean pressure garments up her legs. He kissed her and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You still scream my name the same as always."

She gave him a fierce glare. He barely dodged the flying hanger.


	30. Let Go

**Hey all, I just wanted to take a minute and really, REALLY thank you for all the kindness I get from you. I don't just mean the love, I mean the awesome, lovely, thorough, critical reviews I get. They're helpful and so, so validating. Thank you. Thank you.**

**Many thanks to Chemmie and Amilyn for pushing me along. Or, more accurately, telling me to get over myself and _write_.**

**And hold on to your drawers. This ain't an easy one.**

**. . . .**

'_Cause there's beauty in the breakdown._

_-Frou Frou, "Let Go."_

Gibbs scraped Ziva's breakfast plate into the garbage disposal—she would not finish her eggs despite both his and Abby's chiding—and swore that if he heard her say one more damn time that she wasn't ready to get in the water then he was going to throw her in himself.

The pool door was open. Steam gathered around the can light in the laundry room ceiling. Abby slapped out barefoot in her black bikini, grabbed a stack of towels off the top of the dryer, and went back in. _You still haven't budged_? he heard her whine. He knew Ziva was still quavering at the edge of the pool, feet in the water, palms digging hard into the pebbly surface of the pool deck. He'd put her there after Abby had dressed her in a new navy blue swimsuit and a short hooded robe.

"I am still here," Ziva retorted curtly. "Maybe I am not ready this. I want to go back in."

Gibbs' knuckles tightened on the edge of the sink—he had to take a breath before they'd loosen up—and he slammed the dishwasher door hard enough to rattle the glasses inside. His heavy, impractical boots carried him out the door. He pondered, idly, that he should probably wear sneakers to PT with her, but then his big, rough hands were under her arms and he was thrusting her, skinny and surprised, out in front of him. She dangled, all useless limbs and long dark ponytail.

"Catch," he deadpanned, looking at Tony, and gave Ziva one mighty heave into the water. Tony caught her, of course, and smoothed the furrow in his brow before she could look at him. Abby let out a victorious whoop and Ziva wiped the water from her eyes.

"Abba!" she shrilled in shock and disdain, but Tony was already towing her along, urging her to kick, to push like she did in PT, to hold on and focus and keep her head up.

Gibbs' gut swirled and perspiration beaded on his forehead; both anger and the steamy heat of the pool enclosure were making him sweat. He turned away and pounded down the basement steps, furious and frustrated. He'd had no right to get angry at Ziva; her battered nervous system was doing the best it could. She was allowed to be afraid and anxious and young—wouldn't _he_, if the tables were turned?

A creased piece of sandpaper caught on his calluses and stayed there. Gibbs blinked once, twice, and made himself breathe. Sadness and helplessness were building in his chest, block by block, like a pillbox. He picked up one of the empty frames and smoothed a corner, shaving away the extra glue that held a matchstick-sized sliver of mahogany between two equally fine slivers of Brazilian ipé. He didn't often do such delicate work. With a coat of polyurethane and it would look like a thousand-dollar import.

He worked for a while, sanding and smoothing, picking off dried glue with his fingernails, until there were voices at the top of the stairs and the wheelchair lift rumbled to life. Ziva bumped aboard and it inched her down the stairs, riser by riser. He managed to throw a dust cloth over his frames before she peeked around the doorway, hair still wet.

"Abba?"

"What, Ziver?"

She rocked on her axles, thinking. "I wanted to talk you. I wanted…I wanted to say sorry." She paused to sniff and he felt like a bastard. "Sorry things are so…hard."

There was a lump in Gibbs' throat and it took two tries to swallow it. "It's fine. Did you have fun in the pool?"

She ignored the question. "I did not mean to make you angry."

His ire returned, inching up his esophagus like acid. "I _said_ it's fine. Why are you down here?" his voice climbed to a shout. "And why are you crying?"

Ziva snapped her head back, stunned. "Because I made you mad. You deserve a…um…so you know."

She meant an _explanation_ and he didn't deserve one at all. He knew she was frail and fragile, but he'd gotten angry anyway and stormed around like a child. He turned, leaned against the workbench, and crossed his arms, waiting for the angry tide to recede. It did.

"I shouldn't have gotten mad," he offered. "It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to _you_." He wanted to shut his dribbling mouth, but couldn't. "I don't like that you're so weak," he admitted, staring hard at her. "I don't like that you can't do what you used to."

Her eyes were hard and dark as coal. "I did not want this," she told him urgently. "I _do_ not want this. I do not want this body and my head is…I am slow and _soft_ and I…I…" she stalled mouth open. "I hate this!" she finally cried. Her words were high and reedy and furious. "I _hate_ scared. I _hate_ tired. But I do _not know what to do_!" Her voice crescendo'ed and she panted, chest heaving, hands locked on her pushrims.

Gibbs put a hand over his mouth and blinked out the casement window. The rain had abated and the sun caught silver on the dying grass. "Gimme a second chance?" he begged suddenly.

Ziva regarded him quizzically, head cocked. "You will not give up?"

"Nope," he said, blue eyes certain.

"You will not throw me again?"

He picked up his sandpaper and turned it in his hands. "You get hurt?"

"No," she scoffed. "Tony caught. _He_ did not get mad when I was nervous." She lifted her chin, boastful and totally in love.

He shook his head, smirking. "DiNozzo would catch you or drown tryin'." She fell silent, chewed her bottom lip, and looked for all the world like she was about six years old. "And I would, too," he finished roughly. He took her face in his hands. "You trust me?"

"Yes," she replied honestly.

"I trust you, too," he promised. "And I love you."

Ziva was stunned, wide-eyed. "Love you, too," she mumbled.

Gibbs straightened. "Let's go upstairs. I'm sure you're beat after Tony's swimming lessons."

She followed him to the steps and bumped back aboard the lift. "I can kick," she informed him gravely, then shrugged. "It is not much but… is _something."_

"You're something," he countered.

She went to the couch. "Sit with me," she ordered softly. "I want to watch TV." He leaned down to scoop her out of her wheelchair, but she held up a hand. "Wait." She used both fists to inch herself forward, then held herself up with one hand and put her feet on the floor with the other. It was the precursor to an independent transfer. She gasped for breath and her arms shook, but smiled and nodded. He deposited her on the soft cushions and sat next to her, lifting his arm when she tumbled into him with an _oof_. Her head lolled against his chest and she sighed, one hand curling up under her chin.

"News?" she requested.

"You're just gonna watch it through your eyelids," he carped, but tuned the television to ZNN.

"I missed much, Abba," she said softly. "I need to learn."

He smirked. "I can give you a hand with that, Ziver."

"Not today," she cautioned, yawning. "Maybe tomorrow."

Gibbs' right arm joined his left around her and he dropped a kiss on her dark, pool-smelling head, possessive and a bit humbled; he had been _so_ dependent on hospital staff. Anya or Claudia would have given him a hard shake if he'd behaved like that, then thrown him out on his six. He needed to get over it. Over _himself. S_he needed him to stop resisting and do _that Abba thing_, as Tony and Abby called it.

Ziva's tongue clicked and her hand lingered close to her mouth. It made him wonder, dully, if she'd been a thumb sucker. Had Eli ever comforted his child after a nightmare, allowed her to curl up on her chest in pajamas and be lulled back to sleep by the sound of his breathing? Had he ever mumbled quiet, safe things into her hair, or sat her on his hip while he cradled the phone on his shoulder, conducting important business of national safety while Ziva hummed idly around the thumb in her mouth? Perhaps Gibbs didn't want the answer. Maybe he didn't want the certainty Eli forbade consolation and self-soothing. He didn't want to think about the orders and punishments, or about baby-faced, teenaged Ziva patrolling Tel Aviv all night long, cold and lonely and driven and deadly.

He tightened his grip and she squeaked, semi-conscious. "Ow, Abba."

He shushed her and Tony cruised through with his hands full of sodas and a bag of chips in his teeth. He winked. "Take care of my girl, Boss," he said, smiling a little. "I'm counting on you."

. . . .

Gibbs creaked open Tony and Ziva's front door at oh-three-twelve, shaking sleet from his jacket and hair. The light in the stove hood was on and a thermos of coffee steamed on the countertop. A mug had been laid out for him.

Tony jerked on his boots, hopping on one foot. "She's still out," he whispered. "Get her up at seven to start the routine. She has a check-in meeting with Dev and Ellen at nine. She'll need extra time to do her bowel program. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge. I'll see you guys…" he paused and shrugged. "When I can."

"I'm on it, DiNozzo," he replied softly.

The front door snicked shut and the Charger hummed up the street and out of earshot.

Ziva _was_ still asleep, sprawled and open-mouthed, in the bed she shared with her fiancé. Gibbs left the door open and tiptoed down the basement stairs to the workshop, where he built quietly for a while, fitting photographs to mats and mats to frames. It was peaceful work for two hours and then a crash and a thud had him racing back up the stairs, heart thumping along in his barrel chest.

Ziva was on the floor, snarled in the bedding and vaguely shell-shocked.

"I cannot _move_, Abba," she rasped somnolently. "I was fall and I tried to…but I could not…" Her voice dropped to a low growl. _"I cannot move!"_

He unwound the sheets and sat on the mattress with her in his arms. "It's ok," he hushed. "You're fine. Did you have a nightmare?"

Her downturned face was all the answer he needed.

"Tell me about it," he insisted quietly, rocking them both.

"It was—" she stopped to clear her throat. "It was work. _At_ work. And in…in…the screen? You know…"

"MTAC?"

"Yes. And Saleem was there. And his boy. The one who burned me with his…his…um…smoking." She trailed off, thinking, and his gut tightened. "And I was on the floor and Papa was on the screen and Saleem was…he was _on_ me, Abba, and Papa was watch. He did not stop him. He let Saleem…he let him…"

"I know." Gibbs interrupted. "I know. But I'm here and I won't let anyone hurt you."

She nodded miserably. "I cannot move, Abba."

He couldn't console her. "Tell me what that's like."

She rolled her eyes toward him. They were clear rather than clouded with confusion and pain. "I cannot _move_."

"You said that," he teased.

"I try to sit and it is so hard. I try to roll and it is so hard. I want to get into my chair myself, but…"

He stopped her. "So you _can _sit and you _can _roll, but it's difficult. That's not the same as _can't move_, Ziver."

She fell silent, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. "You are right," she acquiesced. "Is not same."

"So how do we get you moving?"

Ziva made a face. "Transfers."

"Yeah. I think we should make that our mission. What do you say?"

She nodded. "Ok. Time is it?"

Gibbs checked the clock on the nightstand. "Oh-six-hundred. I don't think you should go back to sleep."

She pointed at her wheelchair. "Cath and then TV. But let me ready myself."

. . . .

Gibbs ushered Ziva out the front door and locked it behind them. She went slowly down the ramp, gripping her handrims with already-frozen fingers. Had it been this cold when they'd come home from the hospital? Had she shivered this hard? Had her fingers stiffened and her legs trembled with spasms? Misery momentarily cleaved her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She worked it loose and blurted the only word she could think of.

"Abba!"

He jerked the door open and deposited her on the backseat, then spun her chair on and yanked the pin on the right rear wheel. Her eyes were wild.

"You hurting, Ziver?"

She shuddered. "It is cold."

"Yes or no?" He jammed the frame in next to the tires.

"Small, Abba," she said from inside her scarf.

He tossed a blanket over her, slid into the driver's seat and vowed to warm the car beforehand. He shifted into reverse and turned to back out of the driveway, but Ziva's stricken face made him pause.

"My car," she stated blankly.

"Yeah. DiNozzo wasn't sure what you wanted to do with it."

She shook her head weakly, puzzled. "Is not…smash."

"I didn't let anyone drive it."

She motioned with one hand, still staring at the Mini parked to the right of the garage door. "But…I thought…wreck."

Gibbs wanted to bang his head on the steering wheel. "You didn't get in a car accident, Ziver."

She gawped. "What?"

"You got hurt at a crime scene."

She shook her head again. "No, my car wreck. The music was loud and I was…" Gibbs' steady blue gaze stopped her. "No?"

"No. We were on scene at Bolling AFB when some creep rabbit-punched you with a twenty-two inch length of galvanized pipe."

"Work," she said flatly.

"Yeah. We were on a guy who killed a Marine Private in a bar fight. Another perp came up behind you and knocked you out. He'd been stalking you for a while." He put the car in park and reached over the front seat to put his hand on her knee. She stared at him, brown eyes enormous in her pale, peaked face. "But we got him and we got the guy who sent him."

"Who?" she demanded, cold fingers clenched around his.

"The guy who hurt you was named Thomas DeCroo. He killed himself in prison. The man who hired him was named Leon Pignatoro. He had a grudge against your family from a long time ago."

Ziva looked dazed and he wondered if she was about to have another seizure. She'd had two at breakfast and almost choked on a piece of pineapple. "Fam'ly?"

"Yeah. Your great-great somebody pissed him off."

Her face went hard and she stared at him for a long time, brooding silently. "I hate my father," she ground out finally. She inhaled and exhaled sharply, still gripping his hand and looked back at her coupe sitting so prettily in the driveway. "We should go."

He nodded and shifted the car into gear again.

Their meeting was in a small conference room down the hall from the gym. Devorah, Dr. Monroe, Dr. Hess, and Dr. Miller were all seated around the table when Ziva shoved the door open and rolled in.

"Good morning," she said softly. Her anger had faded but wasn't forgotten.

"How was your first weekend at home?" Dr. Monroe asked excitedly. "Were you safe and comfortable?"

Ziva's face broke into a sweet smile despite their rocky morning. "Yes," she sighed like a teenager in love. "It is so good at home."

Dr. Miller poured herself a coffee. "What did you do?"

Ziva had to think. Gibbs recognized immediately that the question was asked deliberately; the doctor was testing her short-term memory and word recall. "Um," she hesitated. "I ate and slept. I watched TV. I swam with Tony and Abby and…I…that is all."

"You didn't get out at all—enjoy what little sun we had?" she pressed.

Ziva's face soured. "No. I was not ready. I spent time with my family. We had nice meals together. I went swimming. That is _it_."

Devorah scratched a few notes in her file. "We're here this morning to talk about functional independence, Ziva. Do you know what that means?"

She shook her head, face pinched.

"It's the ability to perform daily tasks safely and autonomously—things like dressing, cooking, and making purchases at the store. Could you do those things now if I asked you to?"

"No."

"So we're going to change our approach a little bit. Do you think you can handle that?"

She nodded.

"We're going to shorten physical therapy to three hours a day and speech therapy to one hour a day. Then we'll send you home to eat and rest in your home environment."

"How will that help?" she inquired tartly. "Less work for more? Even I know does not work like that."

Dr. Monroe interrupted Ziva's mounting tirade. "We're going to send an occupational therapist to your home. Her name is Rina and she'll come twice a week to teach you some stuff that I can't. She'll also help you set things up to make life a little easier for yourself."

Ziva looked at Dr. Hess. "What about our sessions? Will I have…?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "We'll meet on Wednesday mornings for the foreseeable future. I have no intention of discontinuing our work together."

She lifted her chin. "What about art? I like it."

"You'll have art therapy with Cora on Fridays after speech. It'll delay lunch for an hour, but I think it's worth it if you do, too."

"Yes," she replied, visibly calming. "It is worth it. Is it time to start?"

Devorah rose. "Yep. Let's go."

Ziva stopped her with a hand on her arm. "I need to transfer," she said urgently. "I need to do it myself. Teach me how."

"Ok. Let's work on it."

She didn't let go and her voice rose in displeasure. "I want to do it _today._ _I am tired of patient_!" Gibbs put a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off, incensed. "Do not, Abba."

"Let's go," he urged quietly.

Devorah motioned toward the door with her chin, blue eyes bright behind her rimless glasses. "You want to transfer? Get your scrawny _tuchus_ in my gym. Now."

. . . .

Devorah held Ziva by the hips, elbows planted on the padded table, head bowed over her stopwatch. She counted along silently—Gibbs could see her lips moving—and nodded in approval. "And relax, _sabra_. That was a full minute. One more of these and you can go to Dr. Miller."

Ziva slumped, blew out a long breath, and took her hands from atop his. He sat before her on a rolling stool and she'd been pressing down on his hands in one-minute intervals; the exercise straightening her back and built on her remaining core strength. The haze behind her eyes told him it was painful. She opened her mouth to say something, but her eyelashes fluttered and her head rolled limply on its fragile stalk. The episode lasted only a second before she swallowed thickly and made a small noise of discomfort.

"Ziver," he drawled when she came around. He reached for her hands. "Hey. You're ok. Shake it off."

She made another small noise—a soft _eeehnnn_—and tried to pull away, struggling against his grip and that of Devorah behind her.

"Ziver," he said again. He moved both of her hands into one of his and brushed her chin with his knuckles. "Come on now, you're safe. You're fine. Take a breath."

She grew frantic, fearful, and lashed out, still making distress sounds in the back of her throat. One of her hands jerked loose and crashed against his face with a _crack_. It was a choppy, uncoordinated blow, but Gibbs' nose burned and his teeth crashed together with an odd, wet sound. He didn't check for blood.

He gave Ziva a harder, more pressing shake. "Knock it off," he ordered.

She resisted. Her eyes burned with rage; he would've been a dead man if she'd been armed. Her struggles waned but he still held her hands in his, waiting for her to look up again. She did.

"I know you're frustrated," he said. Their faces were mere inches apart; he could feel her breath on his skin in short, warm puffs. "I know you're frustrated," he repeated. "But you don't get to hurt me." He let go and she collapsed; only Devorah's hands on her hips kept her from rolling off the table.

"Sabra, you had better find your self-control right now," she warned. "I do not appreciate your behavior."

Gibbs grasped Ziva's shoulders. "She's frustrated," he explained irritably. "All she does is work, Dev. Cut her a break." He moved from her shoulders to her cheeks. "Look at me, Ziver."

She looked up with wet eyes and a telltale creases in her chin. Self-loathing radiated from her in waves.

"Home?" she asked, sounding tiny and sad.

"No," Gibbs replied simply. "You're not done."

Ziva looked down, ashamed.

"We all fail," he said softly. "But what matters is that we get up and keep going. Now take a deep breath, give me your hands, and let's try again."

She sucked in air with a hiss and pressed her palms to his. Gibbs nodded at Dev, who started the stopwatch. "Sixty seconds, _sabra_," she instructed, and held on to her hips.

The minute passed slowly. Devorah called time, but Ziva didn't relent. Shoulders back, head high, she held the position for an extra fifteen seconds before a cramp bit into her side and she jerked, surprised.

"Ow," she griped, shocked.

Gibbs smirked, eyebrows raised. "I would say, _up by your bootstraps_, but…"

She gave him a small smile. "Help me to my chair. We have to go to speech now."

. . . .

Gibbs' had given Ziva a pain pill an hour earlier and it had taken hold quickly; she was pale, woozy, languid as he lifted her into bed. He tucked her in, slid an extra pillow between her knees, and was stopped by a cold hand on his arm.

"Was not you, Abba," she slurred.

He nodded. "I know, Ziver."

"Was not you. I did not mean…I did not…I hurt you and I am sorry." She scrubbed at her eyes.

"I know."

"It was from…that dream has bother me all day, Abba. He was _there_ and he was _on me_ and I could not move. I was afraid. Before I could fight but now I cannot. And…and that man hurt me. He _hurt _me. And it was not me time. It was not me—it was my father. My grandfather. I do not know but…it was not me and I want it back."

Ziva was curled in a fetal position on her right side. He sat in the crook of her hips and put one hand on her back. "I can't get it back for you, Ziver," he said honestly. "But I understand why you feel that way."

She broke down and began to cry big, wet, child's sobs into the bunched blankets. "I want it back, Abba," she moaned. "I want it back. Please. Please; I want it back."

"I'm sorry," he ground out, voice rough with emotion. "I'm sorry no one protected you. I'm sorry no one kept you from getting hurt." He wasn't speaking only for himself. He felt haunted by the photos Eli had given him. His gut churned and then he was crying, too, slashing at the hot tears on his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater.

"I'm sorry," he said again, tongue thick in his mouth. He had never apologized so much. Not to anyone or for anything.

But he _was_ sorry; Ziva had been robbed. Robbed of her strength and speed, yes, but also robbed of her identity, of her interests, of her reason for being. Her physical self was _everything_. Without it, he could see how she felt like she had no purpose, no personality, and no reason to push on. He scrubbed at his face and found her sobbing had dwindled. She was still hiccupping and sniffling, but no longer wailing like a widow. _Oh. He knew how that felt._

"Abba?" she whispered.

"Hm?"

"Is not your fault."

He exhaled. "I know. Doesn't make me feel better."

She poked her finger at a wrinkle in the leg of his jeans. "Is this third chance?"

He dropped his head and laughed a little. "I think so, Ziver. Let's try to stand down, huh?'

"Stand down," she agreed vacantly. She grew distant, quiet, _small_. "Can you show me?" she blurted, startling him.

"Show you what?"

She blinked, drained. "Everything."

"I can't show you everything," he admitted. "But I can show you what I know."

She hummed her acknowledgement and looked at him for the first time since getting into bed. "I am not nothing, Abba."

"No, you're not."

"I am not nothing."

"You're something," he whispered.

"I do not want to…to…disappear."

He put his mouth right next to her ear. "I won't let that happen," he promised, and kissed her hair. She was sweating from crying so hard and smelled like a puppy.

Sleep was carrying her away. "Do not, Abba. Do not let me disappear."

"Never," he promised again. "Never."


	31. Devotion

**I have this nightmare occasionally that I post a chapter and it just disappears into the vortex of the intertubes. But that doesn't happen because I'm lucky enough to have all of you to remind me that I do this with purpose and intention and tons of love. **

**Sidebar: I have not abandoned "A Village Life." This story is just all-consuming for now and I feel, finally, like I'm getting out from under it enough to approach my other work. **

**Big love and this one is a little easier.**

**. . . .**

What_ if you find a fault between my purpose and my deeds_

_and deem me beyond salvation?_

_-Tracy Chapman, "Devotion."_

Tony peeled off his work pants and slid beneath the blankets, shivering a little in the cool dark of their bedroom. The day had been long—many hours investigating in the snow beneath a highway overpass—and he just wanted to crawl into bed with Ziva and sleep.

She opened her eyes, squinting in the gloom. "Tony?"

"Hi, baby," he sighed, exhausted. He threw an arm around her and buried his face in her hair. "I missed you today."

She dragged her hand over his shoulder and up his throat. "Missed you, too. Abba went home?"

"No, he didn't want to leave so he's sleeping downstairs. Neither of us like the funk you've been in. He said you cried all day."

She nodded and her eyes filled yet again. "Yes. I am…I am having hard time."

He turned over and draped her across his chest, drawing the blankets up under her chin. "I know. I'm sorry. How can I help?"

Her lips moved against his skin. "I do not want disappear, Tony."

"What does that mean, Zi?"

A long silence fell, broken only by a single car moving slowly down their street. "I will never be back NCIS," she said slowly. "I cannot be out with you anymore. Out…at scene…you know?"

"There are plenty of other departments that would take you. Intel, espionage, computer crimes…lots of possibilities. Don't rule anything out right now, ok?"

"I have brain damage," she said bluntly.

He kissed the crown of her head. Gibbs must've washed her hair because it smelled sweet and clean. "I know," he replied. "But Gibbs said the OT thinks you can overcome a lot of your limitations. She thinks you can have a pretty normal life."

"I am paralyzed from chest down."

"But you have the coolest wheelchair in DC."

"I have epilepsy. That means…"

"It means you need time to heal and cope. It means you have seizures, but you also have tenacity and passion and a tremendous love for the world. You gave up everything to keep it safe. Why would you want to leave it?"

Ziva shut her mouth and breathed in through her nose. "I gave everything," she whispered tearfully. "Everything. I cannot do anything I love. Anything I did before. What now?"

Tony shrugged, bouncing her head a bit on his chest. "You are surrounded by people who love you. Me, Gibbs, Abby—she's nuts about you, by the way—McGoo, even Vance has been asking about you. Jackie wants to visit. Would you be ok with that?"

She thought about saying no—she didn't need people gawking at her, newly crippled and miserable—but maybe having tea would be nice. Jackie was calm and smart, an accomplished woman beyond her marriage to one of the more powerful men in military administration.

"Perhap," she mused. "She can come here?"

"Of course, but wouldn't you like to get out a bit? You've been housebound except for PT and that one disastrous trip to the supermarket."

She flushed red. She couldn't remember much of that day, but what she did recall—having a seizure in the produce department, a woman yelling into her face about calling an ambulance—hadn't been pretty. Gibbs had been as protective as ever, but she'd been fleeced for the words to tell them she was ok-there was no need for medics, that she just wanted to go home-had been frustrating and embarrassing.

"I am not ready for that, Tony. People stare…" She swallowed, on the verge of tears again.

"They're staring because you're so beautiful," he breathed, almost asleep.

Ziva's face grew hot. "How you can say that? I am _disabled. _My body looks different…my hands, my legs…how you can still find me…"

"I love your body," he rasped. "But I love your mind and your heart so much more. Can I sleep now? I'm so wiped out, Zi, honestly."

"Yes," she muttered guilty. "_Laila tov_."

He drew her face up and kissed her. "I love you. _Laila tov_."

. . . .

A single text message—_get me_—brought Gibbs to the master bedroom the next morning. Ziva was awake, rubbing her head and pointing silently at her chair. Tony was asleep and he supposed she wanted him to stay that way.

He lifted her and followed into the bath but she waved him off, frowning, so he returned to the kitchen and made a second pot of coffee. She couldn't have any—caffeine increased her seizure risk—but he knew that if she was up, DiNozzo would be soon and he would need it.

She came out wearing one of Tony's sweaters and he praised her, silently, for dressing herself. "I want to make breakfast for Tony," she rasped sleepily. "We can make pancakes him? _For_ him?"

Gibbs swallowed coffee and nodded. Perhaps there would be a sunbreak in her storm. "How do we start?"

She pulled her tablet from the hutch and searched the internet for a recipe. "We need to make the mix and then fry it. I can stir if you can measure, ok?" She propped the screen up so they could both read it and they set to work, measuring milk and flour and whisking the batter until it was smooth. The few minutes they worked side-by-side reminded him a little of how she's been in the field—focused and intent—but he grabbed her hand away when she went to heat a griddle on the cooktop.

"No," he said firmly. "I don't know about you and hot oil. Let me do this part."

Ziva resisted but a small smile played on her face. "Next time I will do it myself, but I will slice some fruit while you that. _Do_ that."

_Use a butter knife_, he almost said, but it was too late; she'd grabbed the business end of a paring knife and cut open her little finger.

"Oh," she said as blood trickled. "Abba, I—"

He grabbed a compress out of the first aid kit and stuck her hand under the faucet. "I should've told you to use a butter knife," he complained. "Does it hurt?"

"It is fine," she said tightly, watching the blood well and wash down the drain.

Gibbs pulled at the edges and frowned. "Doesn't need stitches. Is it going to break open if you push?"

He taped on an adhesive bandage and she dropped both hands to her rims. "No. I can finish now."

He poured cold oil into the hot pan. "Be careful, Ziver. Duck is on call this weekend. He can't come stitch you up."

She looked at him side-eyed. "Do not need. Was just small, Abba. Things like that will happen."

He dropped batter by spoonfuls into the pan. "Not to you and not while I'm here. Be more careful."

"Careful with what?" Tony growled, squinting in the lamplight. "Why are you guys up so early?"

"We made breakfast you," Ziva said shyly. "Is almost done."

His mouth fell open. "Wow. Thank you so much." He leaned down and wrapped both arms around her shoulders, resting his head on hers. "Thank you so much," he whispered again.

Gibbs gave him a gentle cuff to the shoulder and handed him a plate. "Here. Get a coffee. Go sit." He shoved a plate at Ziva, too. "You, too. Your juice is on the table."

Tony took a big bite of pancake and moaned aloud. "These are incredible," he gushed, mouth full. "Is this one of your Mossad recipes?"

Ziva blushed. "Um, no. I do not remember most…this was online. But I will and then I will make for you."

"Whatever. I like anything you cook."

Gibbs joined them and they became only a family having breakfast. They filled Ziva in on some of the global issues she'd missed—Benghazi, Pakistani refugees in Greece and Turkey, China's newest factory data—but mostly they ate and enjoyed each other's company until Tony's mobile rang and startled everyone. He answered it brusquely and abandoned his seat at the table. Ziva blinked at Gibbs, surprised, and dragged her fork through the remains of a banana.

He was still on the phone when he came out of the bedroom, dressed for a crime scene in winter pants and a heavy sweater. "Palson case again," he said apologetically. "We just can't seem to find the end of a string of dead girls from the low track. Two more separate DNA samples were found on scene. I need to sign off on them and pull their files from Metro." He pulled on a heavy NCIS-issue parka and glanced at Ziva. She'd propped her cheek on her fist and was staring miserably into her empty plate. He brushed her hair back and waited for her to look at him. She wouldn't. "I'm sorry, sweet cheeks. I thought we'd spend the day together...maybe get in the pool."

She shrugged and sniffed. "It is fine. You have to go. It is your work."

"This case…"

"And there will be more when done. Go, Tony. Do your work. Help a family."

He kissed her cheek, then her brow, but she wouldn't turn and offer her mouth to him. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Gibbs leveled his gaze and gave an even nod. _I got this, _it meant. _Go_.

Tony kissed Ziva one last time and left, locking the front door behind him.

C'mon, Ziver," he said lightly. "Help me clear the table before you throw your temper tantrum."

She looked up at him, aghast. "I will not _tantrum_, Abba."

"Sure looks like it to me. Bring the plates and put them in the dishwasher."

She spread a dishtowel on her lap, stacked the plates, and brought them to the sink.

"I want to go to bed," she announced when they were done. "I am tired."

He poured yet another cup of coffee and kept his expression blank, though he was sighing heavily internally; she wanted to hide, as she had been on and off for the last four days. "You know where it is. You want to get in bed? Do it yourself."

Ziva sniffed. "I cannot. You help?"

"Nope. Classic car auction is on. I want to see how much the sellers are getting for GTOs." He flicked on the television and leaned back on the couch. "You can either watch with me or you can go get in bed. You make the choice."

She rocked on her axles and bit her lip while the auctioneer called for bids on a 1969 Dodge Super Bee. "With you," she relented.

"Then come here and I'll help you get on the couch."

She angled her chair as she'd been taught, set the brakes, and shimmied forward on her cushion.

"Feet on the floor," Gibbs ordered, eyes still locked on the television. A beautiful silver-anniversary Corvette came up on the block.

She shook her head, forgetful, and lifted her feet off the footplate, one fist in front of her, one behind.

"Get your knuckles under your butt," he coached. Rina, the occupational therapist, had made it clear that Ziva needed simple, straightforward instructions and frequent checks for comprehension.

She put one fist down on the sofa cushion and jammed the other beneath her left hip. "Ready?" she asked, casting him one of her most innocent looks.

He slid over and wrapped an arm around her waist. "On three. One-two-three," he counted slowly, and hauled. She pushed her shoulders down, threw herself into his momentum, and fell against his side. Her head thumped on his chest and he winced.

"Ow," she whined, rubbing her temple.

He kissed it and pulled a throw of the back of the couch to tuck around her. "Next time you're on your own."

She smiled and snuggled into him. "I am trying, Abba.

. . . .

Tony stomped back in the front door at oh-four-thirty looking tired but happy. Gibbs stopped taking measurements in the hallway and stuck his pencil behind his ear.

"Hey, Boss," he called lowly. He was pulling his boots off. "Did she perk up after a while?"

Gibbs nodded and rinsed his coffee cup. "Yeah. We watched TV for a while and did some stretching. She went down an hour ago. Should be up soon."

Tony yanked open the refrigerator door. "Think she'll give me enough time to eat a sandwich? I'm starved. Breakfast is the only thing that saved me today." He poked his head up. "Why don't you get out of here? I'm sure you could use some space. See you Monday?"

He shrugged into his jacket. "I need to build some brackets for your hallway. Monday, DiNozzo."

"Abba?"

Tony loaded his plate in the dishwasher and went to the bedroom, where Ziva was propped up on one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other. "Hey, sweet cheeks. Have a good sleep?"

She lit up and threw both arms around his neck, allowing herself to fall against his chest. "You are home!" she exclaimed.

"Damn right," he sighed. She was warm and welcoming in his arms-a balm on his cold, wet, terrible day. "Hey, enough sitting around. Let's go somewhere."

She balled his sweater in her fists. "Where?" she asked without lifting her head.

He thought for a minute. "There's a great little coffee shop in downtown Bethesda that's quiet and accessible. How about we go there for a cuppa and a pastry?"

She turned slightly to look out the window. "Is almost dark, Tony. Too late?"

"It isn't even five o'clock in the afternoon. C'mon—we don't even have to sit for ten minutes. I'm bored. Treat me to a bear claw and some of your delightful companionship."

She pulled back but nodded. "Help me change first? I…I want to wear what Abby gave."

The café was nearly empty; only two old women shared a table, gossiping over some knitting and cups of tea with milk. Ziva made her way slowly to the counter and sighed in relief; it was low enough for her to reach without help. Tony ordered his coffee and pastry but she flushed, unable to decide and unable to ask for something.

"Tea, sweet cheeks? Or maybe a hot cocoa?"

Her tongue finally loosened. "Hot cocoa," she said timidly. The server—a college-aged girl in an apron and jeans—moved toward the espresso bar. Ziva shook her head, ignoring the noisy pumping of her heart. "No," she said firmly. "_White_ hot cocoa. With whipped cream."

The girl grinned. "One of my favorites. Is it easier for you if I put it in a to-go cup with a lid?" Her tone was cool, casual, and she continued to smile as she steamed milk and added syrup.

Ziva nodded, feeling understood, and willed her brain to send the right words to her mouth. "Yes, that would be better," she said slowly. "Thank you."

Tony grinned, triumphant, and carried their order to a table by the window. "The holiday lights are pretty, huh?" he asked, staring out.

She hadn't noticed the holiday twinkle lights in the trees and on the building facades; she'd been too busy finding curb cuts and trying not to think about her frozen fingers. "They are. When Thanksgiving is?"

His smile faded. "We missed it, Zi. It was the weekend you came home. We were too busy…"

She was appalled and cut him off sharply. "Missed it? Tony, how could you? Why you did not go to Ducky's?"

"Because I wanted to be with you," he said slowly. "I was preparing to start our life together. Ducky will have plenty of Thanksgiving dinners for us to share in. Don't worry—I am not upset. Are you?"

She scalded her tongue on her drink and ignored the weird pain. "I want to spend a holiday with our…family. I want to have a party for everyone who has…help us since…you know."

"Your accident?" he supplied. "You can say it, Zi."

"Yes. Since my _accident_. I think we owe them and I want to share…with them."

"Are we throwing a Hanukkah party?" he begged. "With those potato pancakes? I _love _those things."

She giggled softly. "Yes, I can make them. You will have to help. And I want to invite Adi and Ofek and the children."

"Ok," Tony agreed. "And the whole crew?"

"Everyone. Vance and Jackie, too." She stared at the cars swishing through the sloppy snow and took another sip of her cocoa. "I watch cars on TV with Abba this morning."

He was interested. "The Bloomington auction? With all the classic hot rods and muscle cars? I've been to that show—went with some buddies when I was in college. It's a great time."

Ziva had yet to pull her eyes from the street. "I cannot drive. I will never drive again. We should sell car. _My_ car."

He nodded. "Ok. Are you sure?"

She huffed. Her breath made a cloud on the glass. "_Yes_, Tony. I am sure."

"Should we do that tomorrow?"

She turned her eyes to his. "Abba say I can get more money from private sell, but I do not want people coming to look, Tony. I do not want them near our home. We can go to the um…"

"Dealership?"

"Yes, the dealership. I would like to take there and sell. We will need someone to drive it."

He fidgeted. "Maybe we should wait, then. I'd like to spend a day with just us tomorrow."

Ziva grinned. "Me, too. Maybe swim," she said happily. "Or just stay in bed and watch the snow."

Fresh snow was falling on the slush when they left and it turned Ziva's wheels into a frozen, mucky mess. Tony stopped her with his hands as she pulled off her coat and hat.

"Huh uh," he refused. "You are not rolling all over my brand new golden teak floors with those dirty tires. Let's clean them off. Can I put you on the bench?"

There was an entry bench by the front door with a rack beneath it for shoes. She nodded and he transferred her quickly before wiping down her chair with a clean, dry rag.

"There's gotta be a better way than this," he groused. "Do you have like…indoor wheels? Something we can leave at home on days like this? Change 'em out when we get in?"

She rolled a tire on the slate entry tiles. "This is what I have, Tony. If you want more we must buy."

He took it from her and put it back on the frame. "Well we're buying some, then. Arms around my neck?"

Ziva scooted forward so he could lift her up, but the left brake had been left locked—his mistake or hers—and the wheelchair slid away sideways when he tried to put her in it. They ended up a tangle of arms and legs on the floor, him on top of her. Luckily Tony had fast reflexes and could cradle her head before it bounced off the floor. He held her tight, panting.

"Sweet cheeks? Are you ok?"

Ziva didn't answer. Her shoulders shook beneath him.

"Zi? Honey?" He extricated himself limb by limb, shaken. "Zee-vah? Don't cry. I'm going to take you to the ER to get checked out, ok? I'm sure you're fine, but…"

"No," she finally bubbled, breathless. "I am…I am…_fine_, Tony." She was laughing. Laughing riotously, actually, her eyes closed in merriment.

He huffed and sat back on his knees. "I'm glad you think that's funny," he griped. "I could've hurt you! What if I'd let your head hit the floor? That's _slate_, Ziva! You could've gotten another concussion."

"I did _not_," she retorted. "You did not hurt me. I am fine. Help me up."

He set both brakes and hauled her into her chair. She lifted her feet onto the footplate herself, then looked at him and burst into a fresh wave of hysterics.

"Your face, Tony," she said. "You should have seen…I almost feel like when…you know…tricks."

He finally chuckled. "Like you pranked me? Thanks a lot. Am I allowed to get you back for that?"

"Someday," she assented.

Tony studied her for a moment, then lifted her into his arms and turned for the bedroom. She yelped, startled. "My chair is clean! What you are doing?"

"Taking you to bed."

She struggled, happy to vaguely angry in a split-second. "It is early! I am not tired! Tony, I am not a child. I do not need you to put to sleep."

He paused halfway down the hall and looked at her curiously, mouth creased with a small smile. "Who said anything about sleep?"


	32. My Lady's House

__**Thank you everyone. Thank you, Amilyn. XO. Be safe.**

****. . . .

_This is like a spoken word._

_She is more than her thousand names._

_-Iron&Wine, "My Lady's House."_

The vanity lights were quite flattering, Ziva thought nervously. She'd taken her makeup bag out of the drawer but had yet to work up the courage to open it and paw through the contents. She wanted to wear mascara and maybe some lip gloss. Would that be ok? she wondered. Would it be too much?

She jumped when Abby barged in, wearing a deep blue sweater and an appropriately gothic-looking Santa hat. "What's taking so long?" She gasped dramatically and clasped her hands beneath her chin. "Oh, you look _beautiful_ in that green. Is that the one I got you?"

Ziva bobbed her head, still clutching the edge of the vanity countertop. "Yes. I like it very much."

Abby fussed with the fabric of the sweater dress. "Maybe we should belt it around your waist," she mused, bunching it in both hands. "No, you're too tiny. Have you put any weight on since you've been home? You're still so skinny. Make sure you eat a few extra latkes tonight."

Ziva flushed. Comments about her weight—or lack thereof—made her self-conscious. She hadn't gained a pound despite the heavy winter meals she'd helped Gibbs prepare in the last weeks—beef stew, stuffed peppers, a roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. He'd helped her make a traditional brisket for the party, turning and searing the meat in a cast iron roaster that she couldn't lift herself. It was still braising in red wine and smelled delicious.

Abby gave up. "No matter. Are you warm enough? Your hair looks beautiful. Should I pull it back for you? No—leave it down. What about makeup?"

She pushed the bag toward her. "Here."

Abby dug through it. "You don't have much in here, which makes sense—you are a low-maintenance kind of girl. Oh, but you do have quite a nice selection of lip tints. How about something a little darker? Jewel tones are great on you." She held up a tube of cranberry lipstick and rubbed a bit on her pinky finger, then on Ziva's pinky finger. She cocked her head, considering, then chose a bronzer and mascara to match. "Do you want eye shadow, too?" she asked, still shuffling cosmetics around in the bag.

"Maybe that is too much," Ziva evaded.

She shook her head, holding a few shades up to Ziva's face. "No such thing. Ok, we'll just stick with basic earth tones for your eyes. Subtle. Should I do this or would you like to?"

She bit her lip and shook her head. "It is too much, Abby."

A look of vague disbelief crossed her face. "No such thing," she repeated. "It's _your_ party, Ziva. It's like, a moral imperative that you look good. Am I doing your makeup or are you?"

Ziva folded her hands in her lap. "I do not have so much control yet."

"Fine motor not your thing, huh? Ok, I'll do it. Close your eyes." She hesitated and Abby huffed. "Come _on. _I won't overdo it and it'll just take a few minutes, which is good because Leon and Jackie are just a few minutes away."

"Go ahead," she resigned.

Abby was extraordinarily gentle as she brushed on eye shadow and mascara. Ziva had to admit that it was nice to let her do this. Her mother had been long gone by the time she'd started to experiment with makeup and her sister was far too young to join in, so she'd figured it out by herself and stuck to what she knew. She'd also gleaned a few tricks from the women who'd done her up for undercover operations—women who worked in offices, who tailored their suit skirts to show just enough leg, who wore black mascara and Cleopatra eyeliner and tugged Ziva's tight ponytails loose with sighs of jealousy. _Where did you get all this hair? _they'd ask, not really wanting to know. Ziva was too dark, too foreign, too exotic to have the answers they wanted. They did her makeup judiciously and sent her packing in dresses that were so short and so tight they belonged only in movies about high-priced hookers.

She'd secretly enjoyed it, though. She'd liked the way men looked at her; the way Tony stared, the way Gibbs had thrown his jacket around her shoulders the minute the op was over. She felt sexy, powerful, _important_, even if she was only playing a brief, lineless role.

Abby pulled back and she jumped again. "Ok," she said. "Look in the mirror before I move on to your lips. Do you think you need another coat of mascara?"

Ziva nearly startled a third time when she glanced in the mirror. She'd become quite skilled at ignoring her reflection; the hours she spend in the bathroom bathing and doing her programs gave her plenty of practice. An occasional glance couldn't be helped, so she'd gotten used to her pallor, her thin cheeks, her dry skin and red-rimmed eyes.

But Abby had done some sort of magic—highlighting her long eyelashes and high cheekbones—and now she looked...pretty, if she had to admit it. Fresh. Attractive. Maybe even sexy. The look on Tony's face would be the barometer.

The doorbell rang and Ziva jumped for a forth time. She grunted in irritation. Abby put a hand on her arm. "You're on high-alert all the time, aren't you?"

She nodded sheepishly. "Everything is just so…_loud_."

"Should we put your vest on before we go out there?" She applied the berry lipstick as she talked and motioned for Ziva to press her lips together.

"Maybe it would be better," she acquiesced slowly. She didn't like to wear it when there was company around, even they couldn't see it under her heavy sweaters.

Abby velcroed her in quickly and adjusted the sweater on top. She stood back, proud. "You look beautiful," she proclaimed. "The Vances are here. Let's go say hello."

Ziva steadied her jangling nerves and greeted her guests with kisses, entertained small talk, and accepted hostess gifts. First the Vances, then Ducky, Palmer, and Breena, and then the Shiltons, a few minutes late in typical Israeli fashion. Ofek shook the boys out of their coats while Adi gave Ziva a kiss on each cheek.

"This is lovely," she said, admiring the festive table, the menorah in the window, and the small Christmas tree in the corner. "You did this?"

"I had help," Ziva admitted. "But yes, I did it."

"_Yashar koach," _she congratulated softly. "My boys have not lit the menorah yet. Should we do it together?"

She retrieved a box of matches and lit the appropriate number of candles. The boys recited the blessing slowly and seriously, yarmulkes crooked on their curly heads.

"_Amein," _she added when they finished.

Tal, the Shilton's younger son, was approaching his third birthday. He was a big, sturdy kid with a head full of black curls and enormous green eyes. He gave Ziva a toothy grin and piped up with an _amein_ of his own. "We can eat now?" he begged. "We can have _levivot?"_

She grinned at him, recognizing the Hebrew word for potato pancakes. She and Tony had prepared them together. "Yes," she replied seriously. "You must be very hungry."

"_Ken_," he agreed, and crawled up into her lap.

Adi gasped. "Tal, get down!" she commanded. "You need to ask Ziva before you climb up."

He stood on the tops of her thighs. She put both hands at his waist. "Careful, Tal," she said gently. "I do not want you to fall."

He sat again and turned around to face his mother. "It's fine, _Ema_. Ziva is my friend."

She put her arms around his dense, warm, baby-body. "You are my friend also, Tal. Shall we eat now?"

"_Ken!" _he cried happily.

She seated Tal and his older brother Idan at the table, gave them each a latke to start, and beckoned the other guests to come and sit. She stilled Tony's hand as he prepared to serve the meat.

"I wanted to thank you all for coming tonight," she said with quiet confidence. Smiles appeared around the table. And a few wet eyes, she noticed. "You have been very generous since I got hurt. I am grateful." She took a breath, anxiety quelling, and carried on. "Happy Holidays. Please, eat."

Everyone clinked glasses and shared _cheers_ and _l'chaims. _Gibbs, who'd taken his customary seat next to Ziva, put an arm around her shoulders. "Proud of ya, Ziver," he whispered.

She beamed around a small bite of brisket. He knew she'd practiced that little speech over and over in her head, mouthing words while she sliced onions and assembled the food processor, going over it again and again as she mixed the grated potatoes with egg and parsley. "Thank you," she acknowledged. "I wanted this to be good, Abba." He winked and ate a whole latke in one bite.

Only Tal was unhappy with the meal, though it had nothing to do with the food. He began to whimper ten minutes into dinner, and then slid out of his seat before Adi could intervene. She scolded him softly in Hebrew when he disappeared beneath the table and emerged next to Ziva.

He fixed her with a puppyish look. "Ziva?" he wheedled. "I want to sit with you." He held his arms up.

"Tal," Ofek said firmly. "You have your own seat. Sit in it and finish your meal."

Ziva put down her fork. "It is fine. I cannot lift you, _motek_, but you are welcome to climb up." She pushed away from the table and patted her legs. "Come."

Tal clambered up and began to drive a small wooden locomotive along the edge of the table. She tried to eat over his head, but jealousy gripped her suddenly and without warning; Adi had _a family_—three reasons to rise and dress every day. Three reasons she loved and was loved.

Tony nudged her when he reached for a second helping of roasted potatoes. He winked when she looked up.

"Cute, huh?" he asked, meaning Tal.

Idan sighed from across the table. Ziva knew the beleaguered big brother was in kindergarten. His messy, destructive baby brother was a source of constant aggravation.

"He's cute," Idan agreed with a roll of his eyes. "But he still wears a diaper at night."

Adi put more vegetables on his plate. "You were two once also, my son."

"And now I am almost six," he declared, swirling a hunk of latke through sour cream. "I am empowered."

Ducky chuckled. Jackie and Vance cast laughing eyes at their own two children. Abby snorted into her water glass. Tony ran a hand down Ziva's arm, and she in turn brushed her hands over Tal's ringlets. _Yes,_ she thought, looking at the dishes she'd planned and prepared, the faces around the table, the centerpiece she'd chosen at the florists' shop. _Empowered_, _indeed_.

. . . .

The Shiltons hung around until after the dishes were washed and Tal was asleep on Ziva's lap. Idan read quietly on the sofa, tucked under her favorite blanket. Goosebumps rose on her skin when Adi lifted her son and poured him into his parka.

"You've thrown a beautiful party, Ziva," she said lowly. Tal nuzzled close and pushed his face against his mother's neck. "I don't know how you did this so soon after coming home."

"I had help," she divulged. "Abby, Tony, Abba—everyone did something."

"I don't mean the work—there's plenty of it, for sure. I remember how awkward and obvious I felt after coming home from rehab. I felt like everyone was staring at me. It was easier to be around strangers than it was to be around friends because strangers didn't know how it was _before_. I was always worried that friends would pity me. I didn't want that. I wanted to move on with my life. But you have done an incredible job and you've made my family feel so welcome in your home. Thank you."

Ziva nodded, throat closing around the words _you're welcome_. Adi kissed both of her cheeks and ushered her tired family to their pre-warmed car. Ziva closed the door behind them and rested her head against it.

Tony sneaked up behind her, lifted her heavy hair, and kissed the back of her neck. She jumped and yelped, but softened at the sight of his sweet, proud face.

"_Shh!_" Abby hissed. "Stop startling her, Tony!"

Gibbs rinsed the last serving platter and put it on a towel to dry. "Relax, Abs."

"I _am_ relaxed," she snapped. "I am perfectly relaxed. Ziva is always on pins and needles and Tony should stop taking advantage of that."

She put a hand on Abby's forearm. "It sounds like you are tired. You should stay here tonight. I can um…the couch…Tony's couch…"

Tony put both hands on Ziva's shoulders from behind. "The sectional in the TV room is a sofa bed—a comfortable one. I'll make it up for you real fast."

"Yes," Ziva echoed. "Stay. I will make breakfast in the morning."

Abby pranced for a moment, brows knitted in indecision. "You're sure? I can go."

"I will make breakfast in the morning," she repeated, and meant it.

But Ziva couldn't make breakfast. Tony woke her to do her programs and then she begged tearfully and ashamedly to get back into bed. "I am so tired," she whined. "And my head…" She rubbed it, brow furrowed in distress.

Tony pulled the blankets up to her chin and sat back to tick off his fingers. "Yesterday was crazy—no nap, lots of manual labor, a dozen dinner guests, and then not into bed until eleven-thirty. Of course you're tired today. Stay here. I'll grab you something to eat and your meds."

Abby barged in wearing a pair of pajama bottoms she had stashed in her giant purse. Skeletons in top hats danced across the flannel. "Here," she said, shoving two plates of toast and fruit at him. "Move over, Zivvie."

Ziva inched herself onto Tony's side and accepted the food and medicine he handed her. "You made this?"

"Gibbs," Abby said around a mouthful of peanut butter toast.

"He stayed?"

"Everyone did. I mean—everyone who's family. Tim's going to set up Gibbs' TV today and someone needs to help Tony schlepp your car to the dealership."

Ziva swallowed some pineapple juice and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her head was aching and she was dizzier than normal. "I am to tired for that today."

She waved a dismissive hand. "They'll do it. You and I will stay in and have a girl's morning." She cocked her head at Ziva's sleep-tousled hair. "What do you do all day when you're not rehabbing?"

She shrugged. "I…watch television. I read. I play games on my tablet." She faded out, thinking. "Not much, I guess. I am tired often."

"Is there anything you like to do? Like a hobby or something?"

Ziva shrugged again. "I do not know. I do not think about much."

"Maybe you should," Abby challenged.

So she did. ""Um," she began, having polished off her last section of orange. "I like to paint. I like...I like art," she confessed.

"Have you pursued it outside of art therapy?"

"No."

Abby huffed playfully and scooped up their plates. "Be right back," she declared, only to return with her laptop—another treasure from her enormous purse. "Do you want to set up a place to sketch and paint at home? It might be nice to have something to do after your nap now that your sessions with Rina are over. What do you think about putting an easel in the office? You can set it up near Tony's desk. That room gets plenty of natural light."

"It is an expensive hobby," Ziva said slowly. "Paint, canvas, sizing—they all cost. I have no income."

She scowled at the screen. "So? You're supposed to sit around and do nothing until you can get a job? That's boring."

Ziva pulled back. Was she being criticized? "I have plenty do. _To_ do. I help Abba in the house. I cook. I do the laundry."

Abby didn't look up. "Action Girl matches the socks, huh?"

She glared down at her weak, knobby hands and felt a sliver of irritation jab at her insides. "I am more than sharp end of the spear, Abby," she said softly. "Now I am not even that."

She glanced up. "I know that. _Everyone_ knows that. You are only you, Zivvie-sharp, spear, _whatever_. We didn't love you just because you thought you were a weapon. Do you want a free-standing easel or a tabletop easel? I know! How about we go to an art supply store and you can choose your own stuff?"

Ziva yawned widely. "Today? I think I am too tired."

"Tomorrow, then. I'll come over after breakfast and we'll be back before lunch."

She rolled over with some difficulty. Abby was sitting up against the headboard so she threw one arm over her legs. "Tomorrow," she agreed.

"It'll be fun."

She smiled against the pillow. "Yes."

"Are you going to sleep?"

Ziva frowned without opening her eyes. "No."

"Sure looks like it to me. Want me to go—let you have the whole bed to yourself?"

"No. I am just…rest my eyes."

Abby slid down among the blankets and put her face close to Ziva's. "Oh, you're just so cuddly. I love it. I love that you love to cuddle as much as me."

She _did_, if she had to be honest. She liked the warm weight of another body against hers. It was centering. Grounding. A reminder that she was still a part of the world. "I never liked before," she mumbled.

"Yes you did," Abby teased. "You just never got to admit it."

. . . .

Abby flung open the hot rod's passenger door and slid her hands beneath Ziva's hips.

She stiffened and batted her hands away. "I can do this myself," she argued.

Abby shook her head furiously. "No way, Zivvie. Gibbs and I agree that the running boards are too deep and the distance from seat to seat is too far. You could fall and hurt yourself."

She rolled her eyes and put both arms around Abby's neck. "Fine. Next time."

"Yeah, 'cause you'll need more supplies when you run out." She lifted Ziva easily out of the passenger seat and into her chair. "Got your list?"

She lifted her feet to the footplate. "Yes."

Abby slung the door open for her. "Then let's get to it!"

The store was large, with towering shelves stacked with every imaginable art supply. There were stacks of canvases and surfaces, drawing boards, palettes, brushes in cups coded by size, shape, and texture. And the colors-0il pastels, pencil pastels, soft pastels tubes of every hue Ziva had ever seen and many more that she hadn't. The sheer volume of goods made it difficult to concentrate. She dug her list from her pocket.

"I will only buy drawing things today," she said. She'd prepared the list carefully and had Tony check it. _Charcoal pencils, graphite pencils, sketch paper, kneaded and vinyl erasers, fixative_.

Abby snagged a shopping basket. "That's fine. We can come back any time you'd like."

She nodded tightly, searched the overhead signs for charcoal pencils and erasers, and inhaled sharply when she made it to the display without knocking over any others; the aisles were _so_ narrow.

A skinny young man in a plaid shirt came over to them. "Need help with anything?"

"Yes," Ziva said tartly. A bit of anger burbled in her stomach. "I need accessible products. How is this store permitted to have such narrow passages? I could knock something over or get hurt."

He nodded nervously. "I understand. We're actually working with a lawyer and an architect to guarantee accessibility for disabled persons. It will be fixed by the time you return to replace those or your next haul is on us," he promised.

She raised her chin at him. "Fine. I need charcoal pencils and pencil grips. Where are they?"

He kicked a few boxes out of their path and led her over to a display. "We're also restocking a lot of low inventory," he explained, smoothing his ironic moustache. "These packages aren't usually here."

Ziva chose two sets of soft grip tubes to go on the charcoal pencils she'd already picked out. "Well they are now and so am I." She softened at his expression of utter chagrin. "I like this place. I will continue to shop as long as I can get things. You know I mean?"

He nodded again. "I understand. How about I throw in a few pads of paper for free?"

"That would be…nice," she sighed, fishing for her debit card. "But not nec...needed."

It took both of them to load her packages into the back of the car. The store manager had not only thrown in a few pads of sketch paper, but also a set of soft pastels and a list of art happenings in the DC metro area. They chatted happily as Abby lifted Ziva into the car, but something happened—a trip, perhaps, a misstep, Abby rolling her ankle off her stacked platforms—and she found herself tossed against the side of the car. Ziva landed on her hip between the door jamb and the curb. Her cheek bounced off the edge of the hard seat. She cried out wordlessly, jarred by the impact.

Abby nearly burst into tears. "Oh my God, Zivvie! I am so sorry! Are you hurt?"

Passersby stopped to check on her, stunned silent and embarrassed. "I am ok," Ziva finally ground out as she was lifted into the passenger seat. "I did not…expect…"

Abby got in the other side and slammed the door. "Tony didn't want you to transfer yourself because you might fall and get hurt and there I am dropping you in the gutter! I am so, so sorry. What can I do to make up for it?"

Ziva put a hand on her shaking arm. "Home, please. I am fine but I am dirty. I need clean clothes."

"Ok," she agreed, starting the car and backing out of the space. "I am so, so sorry. We'll check you over when we get home and then maybe I'll help you take a warm shower? Aren't you cold? You landed right in the snow."

"I am fine," she said again, but firmly. "Home, please."

Gibbs and Tony were seated at the kitchen island when they returned, having lunch among a sea of leftovers. Tony held something in her direction, grinning. "Check it out, Zi," he said proudly. "Latke sandwich. I'm carbo-loading."

She smiled, rolled her eyes, and went directly to the laundry room, where she dropped her dirty coat to the floor and hoped it was machine washable. Abby was standing before Gibbs when she returned, tearfully begging for mercy.

"I didn't mean to do it," she bemoaned. "I really, really didn't. But the ground was icier than I thought and I slipped and then she was in the _gutter_ and she banged her head!"

Tony cupped Ziva's face in his hands. "Ya all right?" he asked softly.

She smiled. "Fine. It is…not easy when that happens but…"

He brushed his thumb over the small bruise near her eye. "Let's get some ice on that. You got a cut down kit, Boss? Rocky here got a shiner."

Gibbs looked over from where he'd been consoling Abby. "Duck isn't on call."

"There is no need." Ziva said sharply, and fumbled the towel around the ice pack. She hesitated before scooping it off the floor, still a bit afraid of falling again.

She sat up and he put a finger to her chin to inspect the damage. Her mouth tightened. "Scary?" he asked gently.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Yes. I do not…like that, Abba. I do not have control."

"Sucks, huh?"

She snorted and gave him a watery smile. "Yes."

"I'm sorry," Abby said for the millionth time. "I didn't mean it."

"I know," Ziva replied. "I know you did not. I am not angry, but it is hard to fall like that. I feel very…weak. Scared."

Tony ruffled her hair and picked up the packages from the entry floor. "Let's go set this up," he called from the hallway. "I've had enough of mushy stuff."

. . . .

Tony flopped to the mattress with a groan and gathered Ziva close. It was a nightly ritual—her going to bed a bit earlier than he, then his arrival and either lovemaking or a quiet conversation in each other's arms. He buried his face in her hair and she swallowed reflexively. She was mad. He could damn near smell it.

"What?" he asked, quietly defensive.

"Today," she began softly. "When Abby and I got home—I was trying to tell how I felt and you walk away."

He put a hand to his head. "I'm sorry. I was really angry at Abby for dropping you and I had to walk out or I would have made a scene."

"Was not her fault."

"Yeah, it was," he maintained. "First I asked her to take my car because it's lower and she said no—you'd be fine. Then I asked to go along because I'm stronger and can lift you more easily and she said no—you'd be fine. And _then _I asked her to go to the place in Potomac rather than the one in Silver Spring because it has a parking lot rather than street parking and _again_ she said no—you'd be fine. And then she dropped you and now you have a sundry assortment of bruises and you're taking pain meds again. I don't like it. I'm upset but I need to cool off before I can talk to her."

"It was only half a dose," Ziva admitted.

Tony hadn't heard her. "_And_," he carried on. "She knows you're a nervous wreck all the time. She knows your nervous system is like a down power line after a hurricane. It's live, but it's not _us_ who gets zapped, it's _you_. You think she would have been more careful, especially after the way she yelled at me on Friday night for tickling you."

She closed her eyes. "I do not like that I have come between you."

He lay back down. "It's not you, Zi. Sometimes that's just how people get when they're close. We'll work it out. I still love her." He heaved a sigh. "And she _did_ apologize about a gazillion times. I can't come down on her. Maybe I shouldn't say anything."

"No," she drawled, tracing the line of his shoulder with her finger. "You should say how feel. She is family, Tony. You need tell her or your anger will turn into…something else."

"I will, I will," he groused. "I still…I worry a lot about something happening to you. I feel like I just got you back from the hospital. The thought of losing you…"

Ziva put a hand on his cheek. "I am not going, Tony. I am here. With you."

He held her tightly. "I know. And I know you feel better and stronger than you have in weeks, but to me you're still fragile, Zi. There's so much to worry about-seizures, injuries, AD. I don't like how powerless I feel when those things happen."

She nodded against his chest. "Did you feel powerless when I got hurt?"

"Yes," he grunted tearfully. "To watch what you went through…it makes me sick. I failed. I didn't have your back and look what happened." His chest hitched and then he was crying, stifling his sobs with his hand. "I didn't have your back," he grunted. "I assumed you could take care of yourself. I have no one to blame for this but me."

Ziva stroked his hair. "Not your fault. Tell me exactly what happened."

He sniffed and took a breath. "We were chasing a Marine Private who'd killed another recruit in a bar fight. We had him surrounded at Bolling AFB—he ran down there to take cover in an old buddy's house—and I had an eyeball on him. You said you didn't, but then I guess you did because you took off running. You chased him into us. We cuffed and stuffed him, but you never showed. We called you over the radio, but you didn't answer, so we went back into the park. I found you in the scrub, barely breathing. I thought you were dead, Zi. Seriously. I thought you were dead."

She stroked his hair again. "I am not," she said.

"But I thought you _were_," he retorted. "I thought you were dead and I was terrified. I was terrified to lose you. I told you before that I can't live without you."

"I am so sorry," she warbled. They lapsed into silence, tense and sorrowful, until Ziva broke it with a sniffle. "Who caught the man hurt me?" she asked falteringly.

"I did," he sighed. "But I didn't know it at the time. Not until Abby ID'd your hair on the pipe he was carrying."

"He hit me."

"Yeah."

"How many times?"

"At least two—once in the head and once across the back of your neck. Abby worked out the scenario; he probably took you out once and then wailed you again on your way down."

Ziva burrowed against his chest. "He was try kill me."

"Yeah. The guy who ordered the hit had been following you for a while."

"Gibbs say that." She looked up at his face. "Take me there."

Tony was confused. "To Bolling? Why?"

"I want to see where happen. I want to see where…where my life changed."

He kissed the crown of her head. "You're sure?"

"Tomorrow," she confirmed. "I want to go tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Monday," he argued. "I have work and you have PT."

"Tomorrow," Ziva repeated. "You will take me. I want to see it all, Tony. I want to know where you found."

Tony wasn't sure he could stomach it. "You probably can't get there, Zi. It's down this embankment…bushes, tall grass..."

She angled his face down at hers. "You will take me, Tony. No excuses."

"No excuses," he echoed.

Ziva's head grew heavier on his chest. Sleep was claiming her, though her right hand was still locked tight on his arm. "But first…talk Abby."

"I will," he promised lightly.

"You will," she echoed, and fell asleep with one hand resting lightly on his stubbly cheek.

. . . .

True to his word, Tony stepped into Abby's lab at a quarter after eight the next morning. The music was on, but not blaring and Major Mass Spec was still warming up. He'd remembered to stop for a Caf-Pow on the way in.

"Hey, Tony," she greeted cheerfully. "How's Ziva? She ok? No lasting damage?"

He handed over the soft drink. "She's fine. Just a few bruises. Can we talk about that, actually?"

She took a sip and turned off the music. "Yeah. What's up?"

He rocked on the balls of his feet. "I got pretty upset after you dropped her yesterday."

She crossed her arms. "I told you it was an accident."

"I know," he said mildly. "But it was an accident _after_ I told you what she needed to be safe." He held out his hands. "You didn't do it, Abbs, and Ziva got hurt. And she was scared."

"I said I was sorry," she repeated. "I already plan to make it up to her." She pointed a finger, head cocked. "But that's not what's bothering you, is it?"

He scanned the lab. "I was upset that you didn't listen to me. I don't…I don't take these precautions because it's fun, Abbs. I do it because…because it's our _life_. I do these things because she _can't_. Do you get that?"

She fixed him with a blank look. "Do I _get that_? Tony, I'm the child of two adults with disabilities. I _get_ exactly what you're doing and I'm trying to do it, too. But the fact of the matter is that bumps and spills are unavoidable. How we deal with them is what matters."

He sat heavily on a rolling lab stool and let his hands dangle from his wrists. "I know that," he snapped childishly. "But every time she gets hurt…"

Abby crouched before him. "You're right back there, aren't you? Right back where she got hurt. Where she almost got stolen from you because of some hundred-year-old petty stupidity."

She folded him into a hug and he nodded against her shoulder. "Yeah," he whimpered. "I can't lose her."

"Because you finally have the love and acceptance you've been waiting for, huh?"

He nodded again.

"Does she know that?"

He pulled back and sniffed. "I don't know. I think so."

Abby gave him a tissue. "Tell her. Grieve with her. Deal with this, Tony, or it'll deal with you."

He blew his noise with a loud _honk_.

"You know," she started, eyes wandering. "It might be good for both of you to go back to Bolling together. It might help you both realize that you need to process your emotions before you can move on."

He bobbed his head, still toying with the wet tissue. "She asked me to take her there."

"So go," she shrugged. "Gibbs needs to go with you, too."

"Yeah," he agreed softly.

Abby threw an arm around his shoulders and rested her head on his. "The three of your aren't just a family; you're a little force-field. You need to deal with it together."

He gave a ironic laugh. "All hang together, huh?"

She pouted, green eyes wet, and grabbed him in a bear hug. "Because I couldn't handle it if you all hung separately."


	33. Pick Yourself Up

__**Wow, it has been a very, very long time. I didn't mean it! Honest! **

**Many thanks to Amilyn, Chemmie, and dear girleffect. Say "hello" if you get the chance.**

**Lots of love to everyone. **

**. . . .**

Work_ like a soul inspired,_

'_til the battle of the day is won._

_You may be sick and tired,_

_but you'll be a man, my son._

_-Fred Astaire, "Pick Yourself Up."_

. . . .

The bedroom was cold. Tony slid from beneath the eiderdown and fumbled in the dark for a pair of warm-up pants and a heavy hooded sweatshirt, then stumbled into the hallway only to have to squint. It was bright and colder yet. He bumped the thermostat from seventy-three to seventy-five and flicked on the weather report; snow was coming down heavy. The meteorologist promised eight to twelve more inches for the DC metro area by sundown. Government offices were closed, public transportation was running only necessary routes, and everyone was advised to stay home as much as possible.

Tony grinned as the coffeepot bubbled and poured himself a cup. A snow day at home, alone, with Ziva. He couldn't contain his glee and skipped back into the bedroom to wake her for the morning routine.

"Oh, what a beautiful morning," he sang. "Oh, what a beautiful day." She sighed and shifted. He kissed her cheek, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. "C'mon, gorgeous. Snow day. Let's get up and get your programs done so we can enjoy it."

She swiped at her face with a lazy hand. "Mm?"

"Come _on_," he begged. "I let you sleep and extra half-hour. You should see outside; it's beautiful. I haven't measured yet, but I'm sure we've got at least half a foot. Maybe more. Want to see?" She gave him a sweet, sleepy smile and his heart fluttered. He nuzzled her neck; his stubble on her skin made her shiver. "C'mon," he urged again. "Let's get the routine out of the way."

"Ok," she sighed finally, resting a lazy arm around his neck.

"Am I transferring you?" he asked innocently. "Because you're usually adamant about doing it yourself."

She smiled again. "I was just saying _good morning_."

He scooped her up and stood to his full height. "Good morning, beautiful. What can I get you for breakfast?"

She chuckled—a sweet, husky sound—and he lowered her into her wheelchair. "I can make it myself, Tony. Let me do this first."

Ziva set off for the bathroom, shivering, and he returned to the kitchen to make toast and tea for her. Tony arranged orange slices in the shape of a heart and counted out meds while she did her programs.

She held out a sweater to him when he came in with their breakfast tray. "I cannot get this on," she croaked, rubbing her eyes. He put down the tray and tugged it over her head. Her curls went wild with static and she gave him a wry, sleepy smile. "Breakfast in bed?"

"It's a snow day," he said, nearly capering with delight. "We're supposed to have breakfast in bed and cuddle and watch movies."

She hummed. "Ok. Oh, a heart. Sweet, Tony." She ate the orange in two big bites and then transferred back onto the mattress.

He stretched out next to her with his coffee cup. "I'm sorry we can't go to Bolling today," he apologized. "But I think we should wait until the weather's better. I can't take you out in this. You'll freeze your ass off." He winked and groped her. "And there isn't much left to lose."

She batted his hand away, blushing. "I understand. Do we have a map? I want to see even if we cannot go."

He nodded. "I'm sure Abby has something; let's email her."

He retrieved the laptop from their home office and set it in the bed with her. She put down her grapes and opened the mail program, only to hesitate, wide-eyed, and pull her hands back.

"What?" he asked around a mouthful of toast.

Ziva shrugged one shoulder and peered at him from between long lashes. "I cannot think what to say."

"You don't have to go into the gory details, just say you want to see a comprehensive map of Bolling Air Force Base. She'll understand."

Her gaze hardened. "Gory details, Tony? What that means?"

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I just meant that you didn't have to pour your heart out to her in an email."

She closed the laptop and put a hand on his arm. "Was it gory? Was there blood?"

"Not much," he offered feebly. "Your nose, your ear…the scarier part was just how you looked, lying there under the trees. You'd gone totally _grey _and like, stiff. Your skin was cold. When I took your pulse it was thready and kind of weak."

She stroked his cheek and made a soft clucking noise with her tongue. "What happened next?"

He smirked. "I started screaming like an old woman, begging someone to call an ambulance. Then two EMTs came like…tumbling down the hill like clowns out of one of those tiny circus cars." She gave a small smile and stroked his cheek again. "And that was the last time I saw you until the ER doc called us back."

She cocked her head. "What he said?"

"That you'd sustained blunt force trauma. Your spinal cord was swollen between your C2 and T2 vertebrae and you were on a ventilator. The treated you initially with a dose of corticosteroids."

She frowned, hand still on his arm. "I do not remember that."

"You wouldn't," he agreed. "You were sedated. I was there for it, though. They strapped you to this big table that was in like…a gyroscope and they flipped you over and stuck this _huge_ needle into your skinny little neck and I thought I was going to throw up. Then they put you in a room and you twitched for two hours. You couldn't _feel _pain but your nervous system was like…lit up. I was terrified. I stayed up all night." He exhaled sadly, unable to look at her. "And I prayed," he admitted softly. "It was nothing formal—you know how I feel about organized religion—but I prayed. And I said that I didn't care if you couldn't ever walk again; I didn't want to live without you."

Ziva shoved closer and pulled him into her arms. "Tony?"

He'd gone quiet, pensive. "Hm?"

"You saved my life," she avowed. "I would not be here, in our bed, in our home, had you done anything different. I am proud of you."

He stayed silent in her arms for a moment. "You aren't angry that I didn't protect you?"

"No," she replied honestly. "I cannot think all those questions, Tony. He would have hurt me anyway. Maybe not that day, but another time, and perhaps he would killed me, then. You got him and now it is safe." She looked down at him and batted her long eyelashes. "You are my hero, Tony."

He smiled and closed his eyes. "Can you say that again?"

Ziva put her mouth next to his ear. "You are my hero," she repeated, and kissed him hungrily. Tony pulled her down to him and kissed back, hard. She pulled on his shirt. "Off."

He removed his clothes, then hers, and flipped so he was on top. "Ok?" he asked gently.

She gave him a devilish grin and bit his lower lip. "Do not make me wait."

He wanted to go slowly, to savor her inch by inch, make her writhe in pleasure, but she pinched the nape of his neck and locked her thin fingers around his wrist, panting in his ear and nipping the lobe to egg him on. "Harder," she demanded playfully. There was a hint of her deadly ninja-self in her dark eyes.

He leaned on his elbows and dug his knees into the mattress. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.

"You cannot," she replied simply. He teased the skin on her throat and she moaned.

He took her quickly and as hard as she wanted before falling beside her, panting, and pulling the blankets up over both of them.

Ziva propped her head on her hand and rolled to face him. "That was lovely."

He snagged his cold coffee off the nightstand and took a swig. "So, um, what do you feel when we make love?"

She frowned. "Feel? Oh, you mean _there_?"

He shook off his embarrassment with a grin. "Yeah, I guess. I know your paralysis starts at the bottom of your ribs but Dr. Monroe said something about sacral sparing and sensation."

"I feel most things when we're together," she said candidly. "Light touches are difficult, but that is more my sensory issues than level of injury. But deep pressure," she trailed off and bit her lip. "Like when you are on me and _inside_ is just as it always was, Tony. And I forget that I am not…that I am disabled. That things are different than they were before my accident." She smiled a small, distant smile. "I need those moments. I need to remember that I am still me."

"You _are_ still you," he affirmed. "I don't see you any differently."

She gave him an are-you-kidding-me look. "Tony, our lives were very different six months ago. We worked together doing dangerous things. Now I cannot tie shoes or prepare a meal or write an email. You cannot tell me you do not see me _different_."

"What you _do_ is different," he argued. "Not who you _are_. You're still Ziva. You're still kicking ass. Or punching it, maybe."

She laughed aloud, kissed him, and arced her neck to look out the window. "I want to go out," she declared.

He scoffed. "You hate the cold."

"But I do not hate snow. Take me outside."

He groaned. "Then I have to shovel. The snow's to deep for you to roll."

"Use the bl…the thing. The thing Abba use last week."

"The snowblower? Fine. But don't complain when I come back inside looking like I've driven a mushing team across Alaska."

"Please, Tony." Ziva kissed his bare shoulder and he shivered, still riding the post-coital high.

"Fine," he sighed. "But promise you'll make me a white-chocolate mocha when we come in."

She kissed his shoulder again, slowly, and purred. "I can think of better ways to warm you up."

. . . .

Tony re-Velcro'd the wrist closure on Ziva's down coat and brought the lapels just a bit closer to her face. She was bundled to the eyeballs in two sweaters, fleece leggings—a present from Abby—and a thick scarf. He'd gotten out a pair of waterproof NCIS-issue gloves for her hands and double-socked her feet inside her warmest boots.

She smirked when he pulled her hat down for the tenth time. "I think it is enough, Tony. We can go out now."

"I just want to be sure," he fretted. "You get cold so fast."

"And then we will come back in."

He huffed and swung open the front door and she bumped onto the front porch, smile widening as snowflakes swirled and settled on the railing before her. "Is pretty," she said softly. "I love the snow."

"Says someone who never pushed a car out of a drift," he jibed.

"You think I did not? I had missions in Russia in winter. It was freezing. I had to sit in the cold for a long time, waiting for a man who shot refugees as they got off boat in Haifa."

"That must've been…intense."

She shrugged. "Was my job." She was quiet for a second, then scooped a handful of snow off the porch rail and sifted it between her fingers. "I may not work again," she said evenly. "Dev and Dr. Monroe think I should file Disability."

Tony stepped beside her. "You ok with that?"

Ziva shrugged again. "I thought maybe I could go part-time, but I cannot write or plan or organize or _think_ so I understand why say that."

"Understanding it and being ok with it are two different things."

"Yes," she said firmly. That same devilish smile crossed her face and she flung a handful of snow at him, catching him squarely in the face with accuracy he'd forgotten she had.

"Ack!" he gasped. "The, hell, Zi?"

She giggled and took off down the ramp, outdoor tires—bought under the advisement of Adi—skidding and sliding on the icy surface. "Did not expect, did you?" she taunted.

"No," he shot back. He packed a loose snowball and tossed it at her. It fell short, but she looked at him in shock and vague dismay.

"You throw snow at a disabled woman?" she scorned, and called him something in Hebrew that surely meant he was a chicken. Tony threw another one; it landed in her lap. She brushed it off. "I cannot feel that!"

He jumped down the stairs and joined her in the yard for an even match. Snow flew and they laughed, faces red in the cold.

"I cannot believe you," she spurned. "You throw snow at a woman who can hardly throw back." And with that she nailed him in the throat.

He ended the fight by scooping her out of her chair and dumping her gracelessly into a drift. She sputtered, laughing, and lay back. He joined her. Snow fell on their hair and coats.

"Beautiful day," she sighed. "I am lucky."

"Me, too," he decided.

Ziva shuddered. "Is cold. Should we go back in?"

He picked her up. "Yeah. I want that white hot cocoa you promised me."

She beat him to the front door. "No, warm up in the pool."

"Naked?" he begged.

She pulled off her scarf and coat, then transferred to the entry bench to switch wheels. He grinned at her, proud. "I'll bet you're so glad you can do that yourself now."

She grinned back. "Yes. I did not like to rely on you or Abba to do it. And sometimes you pull too hard and it hurt my back."

He froze. "You never said anything."

"What I was to say? I needed to move and could not do it myself. If it hurt, then so be it."

"Don't like that," he muttered.

Ziva rolled her eyes and peeled off the top sweater. "Pool," she commanded. "Now."

"Naked?" he begged again.

She stopped at the door and rolled her eyes again. "Yes, unless _you_ want stuff me into a suit."

"No," he drawled, shimmying out of his sweater and pants. "No way."

She paused at the edge and set the brakes. "I cannot get down," she said honestly, meaning onto the floor from her chair. "I am work on it, but I still need help."

A sliver of uncertainty flashed in her eyes. He cupped her cheek. "I'm always happy to help you. Seriously. Stop looking at me like that; it breaks my heart."

She looked away. "I worry you will tire of this."

He smirked. "Well I worry you will tire of _this_." He picked her up, bridal-style and whirled a little to make her laugh. It worked. She giggled and he put her down, only to yank her sweater over her head. "We're skinny dipping."

"Yes," she sighed.

He rid her quickly of the rest of her clothes and she slid into the water. He gasped when it came up over her head. "Ziva!"

She surfaced and wiped water from her eyes. "What?"

He eased himself in; the water was so warm the pool could double as a bath. "You are trying to give me a heart attack. Stop doing reckless things."

"Reckless? I can swim, Tony." She pushed off, demonstrating, and made it almost to the other side before surfacing again. She clung to the edge and faced him with cheeks sill red from the cold outside. "I love the water. I always did, but now it makes everything easier." She swam to the other end and back with only a few breaths. "See?"

"You swim beautifully," he acknowledged. "Especially naked."

She looped both arms around his neck. "I am happy when you say that."

He brushed his lips across her temple. "Hey," he said, thinking. "You didn't have a single seizure today."

She slapped his arm. "Shush! You will curse it."

He winced. "Sorry. Forget I mentioned it."

She ducked down again and popped up. "Ok, ready to out. Grab me a towel, please."

He got out, snagged towels off the top of the dryer, and came back for her. They dried and dressed quickly, shivering though the house was warm.

"Why does everything feel so cold when it snows?" Tony complained. "It's almost eighty degrees and I'm a frozen popsicle."

She made a face. "No talk of popsicles. I had too many after my surgery."

"You didn't finish a single one," he groused.

"I am still tired of them. Did you say something...movies?"

He rubbed a towel over his head. "I used to lie on the couch and watch old movies with my mom on snow days. It was our thing, ya know?"

"Maybe can be our thing, too?" Ziva asked softly.

Her big doe-eyes made him damn near swoon. Had she always been so sweet? Had he just not noticed before? "Sure. What do you want to watch?"

"Black and white," she decided. "A musical."

"_Swing Time_? Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire, lots of tap dancing."

"Yes," she crowed happily. "Sounds perfect."

Ziva transferred to the sectional while Tony started the film. He joined her and ran a finger down her cheek. "You're still pink," he commented softly.

"I have not done so much lately. I work in therapy, but it is different."

"Less fun," he supplied.

"Much less," she agreed, smiling fondly. She focused on the screen. "What is happen?"

"Lucky Garnett is late for his own wedding. He lost a bet and his way to New York City. The plot's mostly forgettable. Wait for the dance numbers."

She hummed and settled in, resting her head against his chest. He stroked her wet hair, humming the score, until the first number began and she jumped, startled by the crescendo.

"This is a really playful duet," he said automatically. "They use a lot of horizontal space on the stage."

She mulled, watching. "His technique is bad," she mused.

"Fred Astaire was a vaudeville performer, not a trained dancer."

"I can tell. His arms are weak. Not _weak_, but not…precise."

He pulled a face. "I forgot you were a dancer. Maybe we should watch _His Girl Friday_ instead."

"I was a dancer, but never serious. I had so much training for my father that…that there was no time."

"There's time now. Oh, did you notice the camera angles? Astaire wanted their movement to be the key to the scene, not the cinematography. He made cameramen stay in one spot while they were dancing."

"Nice," she said softly.

Tony smiled; her head was growing heavier, her breathing deep and even. She'd be asleep soon. He hummed a few bars of _Pick Yourself Up_ and she relaxed further, drawing the throw up to her chin. She gave him a small, sleepy smile.

"_So take a deep breath," _he sang, "_pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again."_

. . . .

Tony didn't mean drift off in the middle of _Never Gonna Dance_, but he did; his head propped on hers, one arm around Ziva's narrow shoulders. He woke slowly, teasing the curve of her hip with his fingers, sniffing and blinking in the cool afternoon light. Days were short this time of year, and the light was weaker yet due to the snowstorm.

He rose slowly, replacing his shoulder with pillows, made sure no cold air sneaked in under the blanket, and tiptoed to the refrigerator. He was thirsty—desperately so—and his skin itched a little from the pool chlorine. He paced the floor, watching the snow and drinking a can of tangerine spritzer, until a small, sharp noise from the man cave made his ears prick like a horse's.

He poked his head back in. Ziva was sitting up among the blankets and pillows, staring dully at the dark television screen. She quirked a smile at him and scrubbed at her eyes.

"Did you just sneeze?" he asked, confused.

"Yes," she replied, clearly congested. "Allergies."

He switched on the table lamp to her right. "Do allergies come with watery eyes and pink cheeks?"

"Yes," she said again, but flatly.

He put his wrist to her brow; she was warm, but not enough to scare him. _Yet_, he refused to think. "Do they come with low fevers, too?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "We were having a nice day. I do not want to ruin it."

"You're not ruining anything, Zi. What hurts?"

"Nothing," she said seriously. "I am fine. Please do not hover."

He held up both hands, one still holding the can of soda. "No hovering. Want some citrus drink? It's delicious."

"I would like some tea," she said easily, dragging her wheelchair closer. She transferred into it and set off for the kitchen, only to pause and sneeze again.

Tony groaned aloud and caught her by the handles. "No. No pretending you're not sick. No faking, no hiding, no _sign of weakness_ bullcrap." He came around to kneel before her. "Let me take care of you, Zi."

She frowned at him. "Is all you do, Tony. That is not fair."

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and fixed her with a puppyish look. "You said I was your hero."

She jerked away, eyes dark in the low light. "You are. Does not mean you are allowed to hover."

"Am I allowed to defrost some chicken soup while you convalesce on the sofa?"

"I will do it myself," she grumbled, sniffling, and elbowed him away from the freezer drawer. "I made it; I will thaw it."

"And _you_ will eat it," he added, grabbing a saucepan. "Do you want to take something—some decongestant or fever reducer, maybe?"

"No," she snapped, but softened. "I do not know what I can take. My meds, you know?"

"I'll call Dr. Monroe and ask her for advice."

"I do not need to take medicine. It is a cold; nothing will make it go away except time."

Tony's shoulders slumped. "I don't like needless suffering. If you feel bad then you should take something so that you _don't_. See what I mean?"

"I do," she acknowledged. She looked down at her hands. "I felt so good today. I do not, usually. So if I can have one good day and then get a cold…it is worth it."

He gripped the edge of the countertop and exhaled, nodding. "A sniffly nose and low fever aren't much compared to…"

"Yes," Ziva sighed, putting a hand over his. "I had no pain today, no seizures, no spasms, no AD…it was a good day. A little cold is nothing, really."

She leaned her head on his hip. He rubbed circles on her back. "You have pain every day?"

"Most."

"I rarely see pain meds on your chart."

She shrugged. "I do not take them unless it is bad."

He swallowed roughly, sad for her. "Why don't you ever tell me?"

She whirled and took both of his hands in hers. "The few hours I get to spend with you are the best part of my day. Why should I talk about pain?"

"I want to know when you're hurting," he said slowly. "I want you to tell me, even if you don't need meds for it."

"Ok," she promised lightly. "I will tell, but you _still _may not hover." She got close again and bumped his leg with her shoulder. "I have had enough of being a patient."

"You're not a patient," he countered, portioning soup into two bowls. "You're a former ninja assassin with tricked-out wheels and your own personal do-boy. Think of the superheroes, Zi—does Bruce Wayne heat his own soup? Does Tony Stark starch his own collars?"

She rubbed her forehead. "Who?"

He set the table quickly; Ziva seemed to be losing her bearings. He bet she'd be back in bed within the hour. "Tony Stark is Iron Man. Robert Downey, Jr. as the brash-but-brilliant industrialist. Bruce Wayne is Batman and…there were too many to count. Michael Keaton was the groundbreaker, but _The Dark Knight_ had the best film cast. I have a strange fondness for the silly Sixties TV show. It's both iconic and classic—kinda my style. And the root of _so_ many good jokes." He ushered her to the table and strapped her spoon across her palm. "I have the whole series on DVD. Want to watch it?"

She sipped her broth and made a face. "I cannot taste anything."

He took a small taste. "That's a crying shame—this is the best chicken soup I've ever had. What did you put in it to make it a little sweet?"

"_Gezer lavan."_

"Huh?"

She thought for a minute, swirling her spoon among bits of celery and carrot. "White carrot…no…parsnip!" She poked a finger in the air, momentarily victorious, and sneezed into the crook of her elbow.

"Easy, tiger," Tony jested gently. "Do you need to get back in bed?"

Ziva shook her head, eyes widening. "No, we did not email Abby."

"We were busy!" he defended, spoon in his mouth.

She dug the laptop out from under their duvet and brought it to the table. "I cannot type," she declared. "So you have to do it. I will tell you what to put."

He stacked their bowls—she hadn't eaten much—and pushed them aside. "What do you want to say?"

"_Dear Abby," _she began. "_Please email me a good map of Bolling Air Force Base that shows where I got hurt. I want to see where it happened. And anything else you have will help. Love, Ziva_."

"_Love, Ziva_?" he echoed.

She nodded. "Abby is very good to me, Tony."

"She's crazy about you. I think she feels a little left out without you in the bullpen. Too many dudes."

"I know," she said softly. "Is why she is here often. I like spending time with her. I have never had many friends. She is a good one."

Ziva rubbed her head again and he caught her hand, looking deliberately into her eyes. "You are, too. Let's pull out the sectional, get cozy, and watch another film. Sickie's Choice. But not _Sophie's Choice_—too damned depressing."

She put their bowls in the dishwasher, thinking and sniffling. "I want to watch _Sound of Music_, but I know you do not. Is there something else?"

"Have you seen _Mary Poppins_?"

She furrowed her brow. "No."

Tony's jaw fell. "You've never seen _Mary Poppins_? Well we're going to fix that right now. Julie Andrews, Dick Van Dyke. She's a musical nanny hired to care for a wealthy banker's unhappy children, he's both the Bert the Screever and the affable Mr. Dawes, Senior."

Ziva was of little help as he pulled out the sofabed and arranged pillows. Her arms trembled when she tried to transfer onto it and she sad back, frustrated. "Help," she demanded crossly.

Tony lifted her up and pressed his wrist to her brow again. "I think you're getting warmer. Will you take something if I call Duck and make sure it's ok?"

"No," she contradicted. "Because why? The fever will come back if I still have the virus. I will wait." He pinned her with a stern look. She glared and dabbed her nose with a tissue.

The film credits opened and she gasped. "Oh, look at London."

"Depressing," he agreed. "And Edwardian, at the behest of the Sherman Brothers."

"Yes." She cocked her head in that way that made him a little crazy; Ziva was cute when she was perplexed. "She is dead, Tony? In the clouds?"

He scoffed. "She's not _dead_, Zi; she's magic. She's just waiting for the Banks children to need her."

"Flying nannies."

"Most of them were actually men in drag."

Her head tilted again. "British nannies were men in drag? I do not think so, Tony."

He tucked a swath of staticky curls behind her ear and laughed. "No, the actors in that scene were."

Ziva giggled at the Banks children's letter demands. "Never scold nor dominate them?" she mused aloud. She turned to him. "Will our children be so…mischief, Tony?"

His stomach dropped. He'd been thinking about family since the Shilton's visit—Idan so bright and bookish; sturdy, sweet Tal, all baby-chub and curly hair—but hadn't had the courage to bring up the discussion with her. "Um," he stuttered. "I don't know. We never really did talk about that…"

"I know," she said quietly. "I do not know how. It is another thing that I cannot do. I cannot walk, I cannot work, I cannot get pregnant."

He craned his neck and looked down at her. "Who said that, anyway? Not Dr. Monroe."

"No. I saw a physician after I came home from Somalia. I got sick from his men and it damaged my fallopian tubes. They are scarred. Surgery did not work. I cannot get pregnant."

"You had _surgery_?" he blurted. "And you didn't tell me?"

"How could I?" she countered. "Things between us were…wrong. I had surgery on a Friday and was back by Tuesday. I did not think you noticed."

He nodded, blinking, as the Banks children tidied up the nursery with finger snaps. "You were riding a desk."

"Yes. I recover quick. As soon as Vance say I could go back in the field, I did."

"I remember."

They grew quiet. Bert punted an invisible raft down an imaginary Thames. "Do you think I can parent?" Ziva asked suddenly. "Do you think I will be a good mother?"

"Yes," Tony replied resolutely. "Why would you even ask me that?"

She cleared her throat and rubbed her watery eyes. "I was an assassin. I _took_ life. Being a mother means making one." She glanced at her wheelchair. "And now my life is…complicated by my disability. My health is not so great."

"It will get better," he soothed. "And your job has nothing to do with how well you can raise children. Plenty of people with crappy jobs have great families. And look at what we've been through—I think we've got the stick-to-it-iveness to handle parenthood."

"You want to be a father?"

"Oh yeah. I told you I bought this house for you, me, and tiny Tonys."

She sniffed. "What if we have girls?"

"Tiny Tonettes."

"You will teach them film."

"Yeah, I've got all kinds of kid-friendly movies, and not all Disney stuff, either. _An American Tale_, _E.T., Kirikou and the Sourceress, Wallace and Gromit_. You name it, I got it."

Ziva shifted and wiped her eyes again. "And what will I teach them, Tony?"

"You'll teach them that they are safe." That seemed to appease her; she curled into his side and heaved a sigh. "Getting tired again?"

"A little."

"Stay awake," Tony crooned along with Julie Andrews. "Don't rest your head. Don't lie down upon your bed."

"I am not," she argued, voice muffled by the front of his shirt.

He stroked her hair. "Will you sing our children to sleep?"

"Yes."

He smiled. "Will you sing that lullaby you sang to me that night in the hospital?"

He felt her smile against his chest. "_Laila, laila_?"

"That one," he breathed. "Sing that to our kids, ok?"

"Yes. They will not have a nanny."

"They'll have Gibbs."

"He is a good man. I wish it had not taken…_this_ to grow close to him."

Tony hugged her with both arms and kissed her head. "_This_?"

"Almost dying," she replied morosely. "Being so…dependent."

He stroked her hair with long, slow strokes. "He loved you long before your accident and so did I. We should've been more up-front, I guess, but we were both scared. After what we went through we're not going to take those chances anymore." He tipped her chin up to look at him. "I love you."

"I love you, too." She smiled a bit and sniffled. Her nose was already growing red from rubbing and blowing. She took a breath and watched the chimneysweeps cut a caper on the London rooftops. "There will be more to our life than just…my getting hurt. There is possibility that I did not know before. I love you, but I also love what is possible. You know what I mean?"

The chimneysweeps exchanged brooms and began again. Tony grinned, drunk with love, and kissed Ziva full on her chapped mouth. "_Though I spent my time in the ash and the smoke_," he sang. _ "In the whole wide world ain't a happier bloke_."


	34. Peace Tonight

**Wow, I owe yous all. I can't believe it's been so long, but this weird thing called Real Life has kept me away for far, far too long. **

**So I need to thank Doeboymomma for the gentle nudge, astrafiammante and Amilyn for the betas, and Chemmie for being her sweet self. **

**Happy 2013 to you all. We could all use a good year, yeah? Love to you.**

**. . . .**

_When things get messy we'll just tidy up the room._

_We'll be no stranger to that dustpan and a broom._

_-Indigo Girls, "Peace Tonight."_

The edge of the map curled up and Ziva groaned; it wouldn't stay down. Abby brought it to her in a roll and not even the heaviest paperweight was enough to keep it flat. She adjusted the mug at the corner closest to her and hunched over again to trace the red dotted line that was the path of her progress. Behind the building, across the road, down the embankment. A red _X_ marked where Tony found her.

But they didn't make sense: the dots and dashes, the walking path, the tall townhouses. Her dull, mulish brain couldn't decipher how these images and her paralysis were connected, though she knew the story of the men who'd been out for her, how she'd been blindsided, how the early days on Bethesda's neuro floor had more than likely scarred Tony for life. Scarred _her_ for life. Nothing worked the way it had—not her head, not her hands, not her body, and having a cold made it worse. She spent two days sipping watery tea and watching movies on the sofabed with Tony, but he'd returned to work once the roads were passable. She glanced back at the bedroom and wanted to cry; _damn_ she was tired, and it was only eleven am.

She found Gibbs in the hallway, measuring with a stick that had green bubbles in the middle. His pencil was fat and square. She smelled sawdust.

"What you are doing, Abba?"

"Measuring."

She gritted her teeth. "I see that. Why?"

"Project I'm working on."

"What project?"

He put the pencil behind his ear and the tool by the basement steps. "You want lunch?"

She shrugged. "We have soup?"

"Nope, you ate it all. Want a sandwich or some leftover chicken and rice?"

Irritation tightened her hands on the pushrims. "No, I want soup."

"Leftovers or a sandwich," he echoed.

She grunted and launched into a volley of coughs, pressing a fist below her sternum. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Soup."

He let his hands fall. "Then we're either running to the deli to get some, or to the market to buy the ingredients so you can _make_ some. Pick your poison."

The world blotted out. When it came back, he had his hand on her cheek. "Ya ok?"

Her eyelids were heavy. "Tired," she admitted, hating how vacant she sounded. It always took a few minutes for the postictal period to fade. Oh, she wanted to sleep.

Abba stroked her hair and kissed her brow. "You need more meds," he said softly.

"Yes," she croaked. Her head began a steady pounding. The kitchen lights were too bright. Gibbs put a pill in one of her hands and a cup of something in the other. She sipped experimentally—grape juice. The sweetness was nice as she gulped down the caplets.

"Food," he ordered, and put an English muffin in the toaster for her. She didn't want it. She wanted soup. She wanted _her mother's_ soup, redolent with saffron and pieces of real chicken. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She sniffled and he turned. "What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"You cryin'?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me, Ziver."

The toaster popped. He buttered her muffin and slathered it with peach preserves, then slid it across the island at her. Her stomach rolled.

"I miss my mother," she admitted softly. He swallowed his coffee. Wasn't it cold by now? Her stomach rolled again. "I have never missed her before. She died and I moved on after the shiva week. And that was all. Then I was in the army and Mossad and then…I came here." She left things out on purpose. "And then my accident and I wanted her to be there with me." She rolled her eyes, feeling foolish.

Gibbs nodded and watched the snow out the window. Ziva shivered.

"You had a few days in the hospital that were pretty bad," he said quietly, still staring at the trees. "Nothing would make you stop crying. The night nurses used to call me in when you had a nightmare. Remember that?"

"No," she replied, also quietly. "I hardly remember anything from hospital, Abba."

He nodded again. "You cried every night. But one night I just picked you up outta bed—they had you all strapped up because of the muscle contractures—and held you until it finally stopped. That's when I knew it wasn't about the pain."

She took his hand; it was rough in hers, but warm. "Thank you," she said heavily. "Thank you for that...peace." She sniffled. "And I still want soup."

He smirked. "I gave you your choices."

She sat up, confident. "You go, Abba," she commanded. "Get the in—the things. I will wait here."

He scoffed. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"Will be fine," she promised. "I will eat this and read while you gone." Her tablet was by the phone. She picked it up and waved it at him, then set it next to her plate. "See? Safe. Go."

He shrugged, put her phone by her plate, too, and lifted his coat from the hook. "Half an hour," he swore. "And you call the _second_ you leave that spot. Got me?"

"Yes," she said solemnly. "I will not do anything but this. Bye."

He kissed her brow. "Bye."

The English muffin was ok—cold, but ok—so she finished it quickly and washed down the remains with the rest of her juice. She turned to face the living area. The house was silent. Really, _really _silent. It was thrilling, yes, but also terribly frightening because she hadn't been alone in months. Doctors, nurses, hospital aides, her family—they'd spent every single second caring for her, _doting_ on her. Now Abba was at the store, Tony and Tim at work, and Abby in her lab, leaving Ziva alone in her new house in the suburbs. She took a breath, then another, then a third before the tension left her shoulders.

This was _her_ house. Her home. Her _refuge_, built to accommodate her needs by the man who loved her. She'd made a few changes not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. She'd had Gibbs and Tony hang artwork and photographs, she'd ordered window treatments, and she'd decided, under Abby's tutelage, to have the empty bedroom painted a pale robin's egg blue.

She rolled there slowly, eyeing the pencil marks on the wall before stopping just inside the door. It needed curtains and a rug—something light and soft—with enough pile to absorb some of the echo from the teak floors and bare walls. The room was also cold. Its emptiness provided little insulation from the snow blowing outside. She thought about a crib in the corner, or a toddler bed, maybe a desk for homework or drawing, but sighed and whirled away before her imagination could carry her away. Dizziness made a brief assault.

She went to the bedroom closet for a sweater. An old one caught her eye. It was soft, loose, and the color of a ripe melon. She wanted it, but it hung on the upper rack. Usually someone helped when things were up high, but Ziva was cold and achy and impatient and wanted to start the new book she'd downloaded. It was fine. She could do it herself.

Her neck twinged when she reached up, but the pain didn't increase so she took the sleeve and tugged. Nothing. She tugged harder; it didn't budge. Ziva snarled in frustration and threw her weight against the back of her chair, leaning into it, watching for the sweater's loose collar to pop off the hanger. There was a creak and then a louder, lower groan, and the whole rack came down. It landed hard on her shoulder, knocked her out of her wheelchair, and knocked the breath from her lungs. Ziva hit the floor with a yelp of surprise and her thought was not _Ima_, but _Abba._

. . . .

"Ziver?" Gibbs bellowed, tossing his keys on the entry table and the bags on the kitchen island. He'd taken longer than expected because of icy roads. "Hey, I'm back. Get your skinny butt out here and start the soup." He lifted a stockpot onto the stove and stashed the chicken in the fridge. There was silence once he stopped rustling bags."Ziver?"

Nothing. He checked the pool door—locked—and the basement. The wheelchair lift was folded neatly against the wall at the top of the stairs.

Office, guest room, master, bath—no Ziva.

"Ziver," he thundered, anger rising. "Answer me, dammit!"

A soft, surprised voice came from behind the walk-in closet door. "Abba?"

His pulse slowed. "You decent?"

"Um...yes."

"You have soup to make."

"...Yes."

He didn't move. Something was up. "Are you changing your clothes again?" She'd changed earlier because the waistband of her leggings folded under and left a deep red welt across her belly and hip. Her reflexes had gone crazy. Two seizures stole her from him. It took half an hour to get her comfortable.

"I am stuck," she admitted slowly.

"Did you fall?" Ziva was quickly building a record of bumps and spills as she got more confident with her chair. He was beginning to see some of her trademark recklessness and that scared him. It also made him totally, unbearably proud.

"Yes," she finally answered.

"I'm coming in." He tried the door but a yelp and a round of coughing stopped him.

"I am _here_," she rasped. She meant pinned behind it.

"Can I open this at all?"

She hemmed. "Maybe. Push a little, Abba."

He pushed. There was resistance but she didn't cry out again. He got the door open enough to shimmy through it, where he stumbled over a pair of DiNozzo's sneakers and a hatbox. The closet was big—eight-by-eight, if he had to guess—and Ziva and Tony filled it to the brim with their combined wardrobes. It was a disaster now, though, as the closet organizer had come down. It lay diagonally across the room. All the clothes had come down, and all of them were piled directly on top of Ziva, who was on the floor and covered to the chin. Her chair was tipped over and draped with at least six pairs of jeans.

Gibbs smirked. None of the usual worry bubbled to the surface. "The hell did you do?" he asked, picking delicately at the pile. It seemed pretty stable. Nothing else was about to come down on her.

"I wanted my sweater," she whined. "And I am stuck." She scowled when he chuckled. "Stop it."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Did you have a seizure?"

"No."

"Are you having spasms?"

Her scowl deepened. "I am stuck!"

"Did you try to get out?"

Her chin creased. Her eyes grew big and wet. "Yes."

"Don't cry," he said. "You're not hurt."

He carried out armloads of clothes, swearing each one was the last, but it seemed Ziva was buried under every single article of clothing she and DiNozzo had ever owned. He picked up her winter mess dress, still in its dry cleaning bag, and realized with some regret that these were the things she'd never wear again.

Ziva was panting when he lifted her back into her chair—panting despite the fact that he'd done all the heavy lifting. She nodded her thanks and gave his hand a squeeze.

"You're all right," he said quietly, stroking her hair.

She nodded, trying to catch her breath.

He crouched beside her. "Were ya scared?"

She scoffed. "No."

He rose and examined the walls where the organizer had pulled away, then gave a derisive snort; it hadn't been anchored to the studs. Hundreds of pounds of DiNozzo's expensive custom tailoring had been hanging directly on the sheetrock. It would've come down eventually, especially if someone—even a small someone—was hanging on it.

"You can fix it?" she asked quietly.

"Yep."

She shivered. "I did not get my sweater."

He knocked on the wall, checking for studs, already considering how to rehang the rod. "Can you find it?"

"Find what?"

He turned and fixed her with a pointed stare. "Your sweater."

"Oh." She went slowly to the pile of clothing and poked around, then retreated back to his side. "No."

"What color?"

She stared, confused, and he wondered if her fever was rising. "Dunno."

_Dammit_. "How about a nap instead?"

She shook her head.

Gibbs was running out of options. "Then we'll put a movie in and you can relax."

Ziva shook her head again. Her eyes flickered, her hands contracted on the pushrims, and she swallowed reflexively. He cradled the crown of her head in his palm until she came around and looked up at him.

"Rough day, sweetheart?"

"Yes," she admitted. She blinked and shook her head. "This is a mess," she sighed, looking dejectedly at the piles of clothing around them. She made a face. "We should clean it."

He touched her cheek; it was hot. "Yeah. Want to help me fix the plaster?"

"Before Tony is home, yes?"

Gibbs laughed quietly and had her hold the patch in place while he stirred joint compound. He applied it with a steady, practiced hand and she watched, awed. "I cannot do that," she mused.

He scraped off excess with a putty knife. "Hm?"

"So...smooth. I cannot do not do that anymore. This morning I was try to hold the map and follow but I could not because my hands are so bad."

"You work on them with Dev."

"Yes," she agreed simply. "We will have to go to Bolling when the snow is gone. And my injury is high. I will never see that same grisp."

"Grasp. Yeah, I know. You're doing better in the kitchen." He sat back. The joint compound needed to dry before they could go any farther. "Haven't spilled anything in a few weeks."

"Until today," she muttered glumly. She'd dropped her first cup of tea on the kitchen floor and then stared at the mess, uncomprehending, while Tony packed his lunch and Gibbs threw her a towel.

"It's just an off day," he said gently.

She bobbed her head and rubbed her eyes. "What we do next?"

He sat back, observing. There were bags under Ziva's eyes and her cheeks had grown pinker from the rising fever. "Why don't you take a break?" he suggested. "You can either take a nap or we can go in the living room and put the TV on."

The corners of her mouth tipped down. She looked at her hands. "This is a mess."

He stood and shrugged. "Messes can be cleaned up."

She coughed harshly. A splinter of concern wiggled in Gibbs' chest. Dr. Monroe's advice had been simply to wait it out—to keep her home from the gym and out of the pool until the fever broke and stayed down for twenty-four hours. He was obliging, but barely. "C'mon," he urged. He considered taking her chair by the handles. "You need something else to eat?"

"This is a mess," she said again, still staring at her hands.

He put his hands on her knees and waited for her to look up at him. "Messes can be cleaned up," he repeated slowly.

She nodded, chin creased. "I know," she replied. Her voice was small. "But I am tired."

He smirked, having been waiting for that concession. "Ya think? Bed?"

She shook her head, sneezed, and went quickly to the dresser for a tissue and hand sanitizer. "No. I want to sit with you."

Gibbs went to the living room couch. She followed. He sat. She transferred with some difficulty and came to rest against him. He drew the blanket down around her.

"Good, Ziver?"

She coughed harshly into the crook of her elbow. "Yes," she croaked.

"No tantrum?"

She scoffed. "I will not _tantrum_, Abba."

He gave her a dry look. She laughed, coughed, and caught her breath. "What a mess," she sighed.

She didn't mean the fallen closet organizer. "No you're not."

"I cannot . . . cannot . . ."

"You cannot stay awake."

She hummed and snuggled in, tired and sick. One thin arm fell across Gibbs' middle. He held her tightly, smoothed her frizzy curls, rubbed her back in long, soothing strokes. It took a while for her to relax, but Ziva's rattly, raspy breathing eventually evened out and she slept, head pillowed on his barrel chest.

. . . .

Ziva was parked in the kitchen when Tony got in, head propped on one hand, an empty plastic cup dangling from the other. She blinked at him, vacant and wan, and made a small, distressing sound.

He put a kiss on her cheek. Her skin was dry and burning hot. "Hey," he said gently. "Heard you're not doing too good."

She bobbed her head. He checked her chart—she'd gotten the maximum dose of her anticonvulsant meds. No wonder she was fuzzy and nonverbal. He kissed her other cheek and took the cup from her.

Gibbs appeared with a bag over his shoulder and one of her small sweaters in his big hands. "Monroe's meeting us in the ER," he said gruffly. He threw the sweater at him. "Get her into this."

He caught it easily. "Hey," he said again, trying to catch her wandering gaze. "It's cold out. Let's put this on." She nodded and he threaded her arm through the sleeves, rolling the cuffs away from her hot, sweaty hands. "What's her temp?" he demanded.

"High," Gibbs answered sharply, pulling on his coat. "Let's go."

He buttoned Ziva into her coat and waited for her to look at him. "I'm going to push, ok?"

She nodded. He cupped her cheek and gave her a delicate kiss on the mouth.

"_DiNozzo!" _Gibbs barked, holding the front door open. "Let's _go_."

He took her chair's push-handles and guided her out the door, down the ramp, and up to the Charger. He'd left the engine running. The exhaust left a fog over their frozen front lawn. "In ya go," he muttered idly, lifting her into the back seat.

Gibbs broke down her chair and stuffed it in the other side. "Keys," he ordered. Tony threw them across the roof of the car.

He pushed Ziva into the middle seat and slid in next to her, draping an arm around her shoulders like two kids at a drive-in movie. A blanket landed in his lap. He spread it over both of them and smiled. "Should we keep our hands where Dad can see 'em?"She quirked the side of her mouth up at him and he grinned. "Feeling lousy, huh?"

She cut her eyes away and nodded.

"Well Dr. Monroe is meeting us at Bethesda. We'll get you fixed up, ok?"

She nodded again and laid her head on his shoulder.

There was a bed waiting for them when Tony carried Ziva into the emergency room. He laid her down gently while Gibbs took off her coat and spread a blanket over her legs.

The doctor arrived before Tony could start the paperwork. "A sickie, huh?" she asked, already scanning Ziva for symptoms. "What's going on?"

"Fever of one-oh-three point five," Gibbs reported officiously. "Congestion, cough, some labored breathing. Four seizures in two hours. Still postictal."

Tony frowned and worried a little more. Gibbs hadn't made it sound that bad when he'd called him home from the Navy Yard. _We should take her in,_ he'd said easily. _She's sounding pretty bad_.

"When did symptoms start?"

It took a second for Tony to realize that she and Gibbs were looking at him. "Oh, uh, Monday night. Fell asleep watching a movie and woke up with a cold. Was mild until..."

"Until today," Gibbs added. "Fever starting going up around noon and got really high when she woke up at fifteen-thirty."

Dr. Monroe nodded and checked Ziva's eyes, ears, and throat. "How many seizures, total, since she got up this morning?"

"Eight."

Tony's heart sank. "She was doing really well until she got sick. We had a really fun snow day."

She gave him a soft smile and listened to Ziva's heart and lungs with a stethoscope. "I'm pretty sure it's pneumonia but I'll order a chest x-ray to be sure. Tell me about how well she's been doing."

He ran a finger down Ziva's hot cheek and gave her a look, asking permission. She gave him another vacant smile. "She's getting stronger," he said proudly. "Her balance is better, her moods are better, she doesn't have those crying jags anymore, and she rarely has issues with autonomic dysreflexia or spasticity."

The doctor smiled grandly. "Fantastic. I'm thrilled. How many seizures on an average day?"

"Monday there were none—not even when she started to run a temp."

She nodded. "I'm so happy. It sounds like you're pretty stable, Ziva, aside from this bug. Can I check over your arms and legs and do a quick neuro exam?"

Ziva nodded blankly but tucked her hands beneath the blankets. "Zi, come on." Tony prodded gently.

Gibbs was obviously in no mood to negotiate. He pulled her hands free of the covers and tried to smooth her tight fists. They curled further. Her wrists contracted.

"Oh," Dr. Monroe said softly. "Did you bring her wrist supports?"

He was already pulling them from the duffel bag. "Yeah."

"Put them on her while I order the x-rays and a nebulizer treatment. They'll be down to get her as soon as they can."

Tony picked up a splint. "I got it, Boss," he said, and threaded Ziva's thumb through the appropriate hole. She blinked at him, confused, and winced when he pulled her fingers straight. "Sorry," he apologized softly.

She gave a tiny shrug and swallowed. "I do not feel good."

"I know. They'll do some pictures and a breathing treatment and we'll get some meds before we go home, ok?"

She swallowed again, noisily, and coughed. "Ok."

He ducked his head. "I love you," he said next to her ear.

She leaned into him, putting one splinted hand on his chest. "I know," she murmured, and tilted her cheek out in a silent request for a kiss.

. . . .

Gibbs paced. He paced while the doctor did her exam, he paced while two aides took Ziva down to radiology, and he paced when they brought her back. Around the room, up the hall and back down, around the waiting area, down to the vending machines and back. He paced and he relished the worry that bloomed in his chest and hands. _Worry is what fathers do_, he told himself.

His anxiety only increased when they brought her back. Ziva was pale and weak, limp on the gurney mattress. He scooped her hot hand into his own and brushed his thumb over her cheek.

"They moved with one of those...those..." she murmured feebly.

"A sling," a nurse supplied. "A patient sling. It's common for para—"

"I know," he snapped. "And she hates that. You should've let me go with her."

"There was no need," she said coolly, moving Ziva's oxygen supply from the portable to the wall unit. "She was fine once she calmed down."

He kissed her knuckles. "Did you give 'em hell?"

She nodded. "Tantrum."

He smirked. "That's my girl."

The nurse huffed. "You shouldn't encourage her to be uncooperative," she carped.

He reared up, angry. "Her anxiety triggers are in the file. Why didn't you check that first?" Ziva tensed at his raised voice and he grew only angrier. "And don't talk around her like that. She's paralyzed, not comatose."

Tony returned from his soda run with Dr. Monroe trailing a step behind. "Look who's back!" he said happily, and kissed Ziva's cheek. "And look who I found? What's the word, Doc?"

She put the x-rays on the lightboard and frowned. "Moderate pneumonia. We'll get her on a course of antibiotics and do nebulizer treatments like before, but she'll be on the respiratory care floor instead of neuro. I bet you'll be home within a week."

"No," Ziva said. Her voice was faint and raspy but resolute.

The doctor looked over and frowned. "_No_ what, Ziv?"

"I will not stay," she argued.

Dr. Monroe was aghast. "You have _pneumonia_," she maintained. "You need to be monitored for complications."

"Which Abba can do at home. Please, let me go."

"DiNozzo and I got this, Doc," Gibbs added.

"We do," Tony added.

"Fine," she sniped. "But I'm sending you home with antibiotics, a nebulizer for twice-daily treatments, and you'll have to schedule a visit with a respiratory therapist every other day until the infection clears. That means no more green sputum."

"Gross," Tony gasped.

"You _said_ you got this."

"And we do," he amended, hands up. "Send a nurse around with the paperwork while I help Zi cath and get dressed."

Ziva put one hand in Tony's and used the other to drag Gibbs closer. He went willingly, a small smile playing across his stony features. A month ago she would've broken down at the mere mention of being readmitted, but tonight she'd remained cool and forthright. He remembered her as an agent—the sly, feline way she had of taking down suspects—and pride warmed his heart for the second time in one day.

"Your chair is in the car," he said. "I'll grab it while DiNozzo helps you."

She didn't let go of either of them. "Not yet," she said tightly. "In a minute. I just need you close." He propped his hip on the edge of the bed. She leaned against him without letting go of Tony's hand. "Just close."

. . . .

"One last go, Ziva. You can do it."

She groaned aloud. Respiratory therapy was hard and uncomfortable. Her therapist, Joe, was a clueless meathead body builder and that made her hate it even more. "Fine," she grumbled, wincing. Her throat was sore. Her hands hurt. She hadn't been able to take the splints off yet, and it had been almost three full days since the contractures began.

Joe fitted the mask over her nose and mouth again and she balked. The anxiety she'd initially ignored was building steadily.

"No," she said clearly.

"It's fine," he argued, and dialed up the pressure.

"No," she repeated. She struggled and tried to pull back, but he palmed the crown of her head and forced her face against the mask. Panic ran its familiar, icy fingers up her neck and she cried out, clawing at his hands. "Let go!" she shrilled. "Let me go!"

Gibbs was there in an instant, pulling Joe's hand away from her face and shoving him aside. "She told you to let go," he snarled. Joe backed off and he turned his attention to Ziva, stroking her cheek and rubbing slow circles on her back. "Are you ok, sweetheart?"

"Yes, Abba," she rasped. She unlocked the brakes and whirled on the therapist. "Why you did not stop? I told you."

"Cough-assist is uncomfortable but it doesn't work if you struggle," he huffed. "Just like, calm down or something."

"You should go," she said angrily, panting. "And please do not come back. I will have my father call and arrange for someone else."

He left and she tried to calm herself with slow yoga breaths. It didn't work; the air thinned and she coughed instead. Gibbs sat down next to her and she put her head on his shoulder, exhausted. "I feel bad."

He loosened her ponytail. "I see that. You ok?"

"Fine. He...scared me."

"Yeah."

She toyed with the edge of her neoprene wrist support. Her heart was pounding. "Can I have a Xanax, please?"

He eased away and rubbed her back. "You're _not _ok."

"He scared me," she repeated. "I cannot make my pulse slow."

He fetched the pill and some grape juice to wash it down. Ziva took it set off for the bedroom, but stopped at the edge of the bed and waited for him. "You can help?" she asked, holding up her arms. She was still breathless and fatigued. He put her in the bed and she snagged the tablet off the nightstand. She was craving distraction from her aching joints and fever. "I want to read."

"Mind if I hang that rod while you're still up?"

Ziva nodded absently and listened to him bang around in the walk-in closet, adding supports to the organizer and rehanging the rod. The clothes went up last. She called out a raspy _thank you _when the hangers clinked together and put the tablet aside; she couldn't concentrate. Her heart was still galloping and her eyes kept wandering to the growing shadows. She wanted Tony to come home. The long winter evenings were a little brighter when he was around.

"Abba?" she blurted, hating how nervous she sounded. How _young_.

He was tapping on the wall where she'd asked him to hang a mirror. "Hm?"

"You are busy?"

"No." He took a measurement and made a mark with his fat pencil.

"Can um...can you hold me?"

He was there in two long strides, pulling back the duvet and lifting her onto his lap. She snuggled in and was immediately calmed by the slow thudding of his heart.

He draped a soft blanket over her. "Warm enough?" She nodded, still feverish, and felt her hands finally loosen. He kissed her head. "You should tell Dr. Hess about this."

She grimaced. "I am doing well. It was just small, Abba."

"Tell her anyway," he ordered gently.

"This is peaceful," she mused, changing the subject.

"Yeah," he agreed lowly. "Haven't done it in a while. You only ask for this when we're on the couch."

"Not this," she argued. "Is different."

"How?" he snorted. She could hear a smile in his voice.

She smiled, too. "The cushions are too soft. If I do not lean on you I will fall over. This I want because...because you bring me peace, Abba. Peace I have never known."

He held tighter. "Not your fault, Ziver."

"I know," she continued. "But it still was not there." They fell silent, thinking, and she broke it slowly. "I want to call my father."

He squeezed tight. "That's your choice."

She hummed. "Yes. But I want to. I want to know why he gave me away."

"You know why," he countered.

"I want him to say it."

"Don't let him lie to you."

"I cannot control that but I will—how you say? Call him it?"

"Call him on it. Fine. Just..."

"Hm?"

"Just be careful. I don't want you getting hurt."

She laughed. "You must be kidding, Abba."

"I don't want you in any more pain."

"I am ok," she said easily. She was—the meds were working. "There is dinner for Tony?"

"He's bringing home takeout and soup for you—Italian."

She smiled. "Ok."

Gibbs tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "He'll be home soon. You sure you want to sleep?"

Ziva hummed again. Sleep was pulling at her, pulling, pulling. Good. She was tired. It was hard to breathe, hard to eat, hard to ignore the pounding in her poor, battered head. She wished hard for the fever to break. Gibbs was warm, though. Warm and _safe_. She tucked her head under his chin and her eyes drooped.

Gibbs swayed and it lulled her further away. "Abba's got you, Ziver," he whispered. "Abba's got you."


	35. Loose Ends

__**Ah! Forgot my AN. Thank you, everyone and I apologize for the time it took. As usual. Very sorry and lots of love. Thanks girleffect, Amilyn, Chemmie. xoxoxo.**

**. . . .**

Doing_ everything by halves—_

_ you've got a real flair with excuses._

_ -Imogen Heap, "Loose Ends."_

Suburbia. Wide, tree-lined avenues, rolling lawns, basketball hoops hung over garage doors. Everything clean and well-maintained. Inviting. Rivka had dreamed of a place like this—a place where their two girls could grow up worrying about piano lessons and science tests rather than suicide bombers and air strikes—but moving meant abandoning his career and he'd not hear of it. He scoffed at himself. _Ridiculous_. Tali and Ari were dead because of his intractability, and Ziva was...he did not know. She'd sounded terrible on the phone and professed to being ill with pneumonia, but hadn't denied him when he'd asked to come visit. He wondered, now, watching the hoary city drift by, if it wasn't a good decision to come.

The driver pulled up in front of the only house with a wheelchair ramp. A mature oak tree presided over the snowy yard. Gibbs was out front, spreading rock salt on the walkway. He lifted his head when Eli got out of the car, but made no motion to greet him.

"I am here to see Ziva," Eli said quietly.

"Yeah," Gibbs replied. It was all but a growl. Eli pictured a guard dog at the end of its chain, ears flattened, teeth bared.

He mounted the steps. "May I go in?"

He got a curt nod in return. The coffee can of rock salt went into a bin at the end of the porch. "She's in the office, working," Gibbs called over his shoulder. "Better knock." He slammed the lid. "And take your shoes off."

Eli stepped out of his chukka boots and shed his overcoat, skin prickling. The house was spacious and warm—hot, really. Was that for her—was Ziva perpetually cold and sick? He breathed out noisily, rolled his shirtsleeves and wandered, touching photos and _tchotchkes_, peering through the window in the pool door. The frame had been widened to accommodate her wheelchair. An odd embarrassment crept upon him; he'd convinced himself that she was still whole and capable. He'd deliberately forgotten how pale and sick she'd been when he'd seen her in the hospital. How weak. How _scared_.

He turned sharply, feeling like an intruder. He tiptoed down the hallways and pushed open the first door on his right. Ziva was parked at a desk with her back to him, curled over a sketchpad, right hand scratching away with a charcoal pencil.

Eli bit back tears; she was so _fragile_. Her spine was visible through a heavy cotton sweater. Her hair was up in a messy knot at the crown of her head. He swallowed; he could easily span her throat with one hand. Her elbows were knobby, and her hands—what he could see of them—were loose and sloppy. A nylon strap held the pencil to her palm. She was humming a tune under her breath. He didn't recognize it.

"Ziva?" he asked. She jumped and yelped, startled. He put his hands out. "Ziva I am sorry, but we were scheduled for two o'clock. Have you forgotten?"

She whirled around with a jerk on each wheel and pinned him with a look of surprise that shifted into something else—rage. "I told you rule. Visitors are to call before they arrive."

"I am sorry," he said again. Her stilted speech was unnerving and she was ghastly pale.

"Sorry?" She paused to cough harshly into her crooked elbow. "For putting your needs first? You were never sorry before."

Her right hand tightened around the drawing pencil. Her tiny, white knuckles looked like little bird bones. Eli wanted to hold them. "Ziva, I am responsible for the safety of a nation—"

She stiffened with rage, threw down the pencil, and scooped something off the desktop. It soared toward his head, glanced off his temple, and shattered against the wall. He put his hand up, shocked.

"You are responsible to _me_!" she shouted. "_Not_ Israel!"

Something else flew and broke. He didn't protect himself from the shrapnel. "Ziva—"

A ceramic bowl narrowly missed his face. "To _me!" _she shrieked, face red with rage. She launched another bowl and an empty picture frame, growling deep in her throat. "You left! You came and you _left!" _She swept a box of pencils onto the floor. They clattered like rain. "I _needed_ you!" she railed, throwing a coffee mug at him. "I _needed_ you and I _wanted_ you! How you could not see that?" More projectiles rained down on him and then she stopped and panted, out of steam.

Her rage left Eli breathless, too. "Please stop," he begged, rooted to the spot. He would not get closer without her permission. "I am worried you will hurt yourself."

"The only person who will hurt is _you!" _ Her eyes narrowed. She nailed him once more with something ceramic. It bounced off his ample gut, hit the floor and broke. Ziva, out of weapons, backed up. The rigid backrest of her wheelchair bumped against the edge of the desk and she snarled in frustration. "I hate you," she spat. "I _hate_ you!"

"I am sorry. May I sit down?" he asked meekly.

The rage didn't disappear, but she pointed coolly at a chair. "Yes," she granted formally.

Her fury was terrifying; her calm was worse. He turned the office chair to face her and sat. Their knees nearly touched. Would she feel it if they did? "I am sorry," he repeated, itching to touch her. "I made what I thought was the best decision, but now I see it wasn't." Ziva sucked in a breath, prepared to launch into another tirade, but he held up his hands. "I know you are so furious, but can you listen?"

"No," she argued petulantly. "I cannot. You are a horrible man. You are selfish. You are self-centered and weak and childish." Her voice rose again to a fever pitch. "You _abandoned _me to strangers and colleagues because you could not cope with my disability. That is _cruel. _I hate you!"

He stared at the floor, saddened; she was right. If Eli had to look at his daughter every day as she was now—frail, weak, wheelchair-bound, unable to speak or work—he'd go crazy. What did she _do_ all day—sit in her fancy home office and draw pictures?

Her shoulders came down slightly. "I suppose."

He nodded and swallowed. "You have been hurt before," he said lowly. "You have been hurt, and always because of me and my loyalties. My patriotism. I knew when Director Vance called that it, again, was my fault. I could not allow it to happen again. Do you understand?"

She nodded impassively.

"I knew Agent Gibbs and Tony would take care of you. I knew they would do the right thing for you."

He put his hands on his knees. Ziva pulled away, angled herself sideways and set the brakes with a flip of a knob on each side. Her weak little hands twisted together in her lap.

He wanted to cry for both of them. "I knew they would love you the way you deserved."

Ziva's expression didn't change. He shook her head. "I wanted you," she said, voice tiny.

Eli staggered under the weight of his guilt. "I did the wrong thing."

"I wanted _you_. There is no one else, Papa, only you and me. And you were gone."

He reached out one finger and brushed hers. She jerked away. He had to swallow tears. "I am a hated man, Ziva," he said delicately. "And you are so vulnerable. I could not stay and allow one of my enemies to hurt you again."

"It was too late," she replied, brow furrowed. "It was too late. You...you could not..."

"You have men to protect you," he said heavily. "Gibbs, Tony, everyone at NCIS." Ziva scoffed, shook her head, and pinched the skin between her brows. He puzzled, apologetic. "Are you having pain?"

"Yes, _you_," she snapped.

Eli recoiled. "I am sorry, Ziva."

"Stop that. Every time you say I get mad again."

He ducked his head, chastened. "Is there something I can get for you?"

She dropped her hands with a sound of disgust. "Kitchen," she ordered, pointing. "I need a drink of water." He rose and stood aside so she could go ahead of him, but she shook her head. "Go in the pantry. There is a broom and pan—please bring it to me. I need to clean this or I will puncture a tire."

"I can do it for you—"

"Go get me the broom and pan," she said slowly. She regarded him as if he were a disobedient child rather than the Deputy Director of Mossad, but he nodded compliantly, stepped over the mess and out the door.

Gibbs and Tony stood in the hallway. They were propped casually against the wall, arms crossed, having obviously been eavesdropping. As much as they could _eavesdrop_ on screaming and shattering.

Tony was grinning, wide-eyed. His straight, white teeth gleamed. "Zi?" he called, not taking his gaze from Eli. "Ya alright?"

"I am fine," she called back wearily. "I broke the um...stuff I made with Cora."

"Can you make more?" He was still smiling proudly.

Ziva huffed. "Maybe. I am out of clay. I will need to see Arvin at the art store. Can you take me tomorrow?"

Eli raised his eyebrows. "She does art?"

"She draws and sculpts," he replied. "And paints occasionally, but has trouble with the texture of paint on canvas. She's still working out which medium she likes best." He poked his head in the door. "Should we go after—? Whoa, shit. You went berserker on his deadbeat ass, didn't you?"

He turned away, embarrassed. Gibbs was still leaning against the wall. A small smile was playing across his face. Eli stood up straight. "You think I deserved that, don't you?"

"Yep," Gibbs said glibly.

"You think I am a coward."

The smirk didn't fade. "Among other things. But if she's willing to have you here then I'll deal with it. Broom's in the pantry."

Eli retrieved it and pushed it into Ziva's small hands. Their palms brushed. Hers were callused. She swept the floor adroitly, even bending to reach beneath the desk. Everything was pushed into a long-handled dustpan and dumped in the trash. She jabbed them back at Eli. "Put these back, please."

He obeyed.

She was staring at him when he closed the pantry door. "Are you staying?"

"I have a few things I'd like to discuss with you."

"Yes or no?"

"Yes, please."

She softened, but only a tiny bit. "Please sit down. I will make some coffee."

"I can help you," he offered, but she shook her head.

"No, I do not need your help. I am neither a child nor an invalid. Please. Sit. _Down_."

Eli sat at the table, next to the empty spot that was obviously hers, and watched her measure the grounds, fill the tank, and arrange mugs on the counter. She was careful—meticulous, really—but purposeful and adept. He marveled; maybe she was doing _well_.

"You are so capable," he mused once she'd joined him. "I am—"

"Surprised?" she injected snidely. "Did you think I would be some dithering, helpless imbecile, Papa?"

He folded his hands on the tabletop. "Ziva, you were so terribly ill when I saw you. I watched them turn you and suction you the way the doctors did when you were just born. I was terrified for you. And where we come from, people who sustain spinal cord injuries are often institutionalized because there isn't support in the community."

She scowled at him. "We are not in Israel and I am no longer Israeli. I have had a lot of rehab and I get a lot of support." She looked pointedly at Tony and Gibbs.

Her gaze meant _but not from you_ and Eli felt low. He pulled an envelope from his back pocket. "Gibbs, Tony," he asked. "Would you mind joining us, please?"

"I do not need _handlers_!" Ziva snapped.

He gave her a sharp look, exasperated; he was tired of being picked on. "I know the funds I gave you before are in a shared account. I need all the accountholders present."

She rolled her eyes peevishly. "If this is more of your empty money..."

Eli ignored her childish foot-stomping. _Metaphorical_ foot-stomping. He looked at her feet on the footplate. She wore soft, warm, grey boots. "I am about to retire," he said seriously.

Ziva snorted. "Is it nice to make that decision for yourself? I was not allowed." Gibbs nudged her. She gave him a look and pressed on. "Why I am supposed to care you are retiring? I am no longer Mossad. I am not even Israeli. Stop with the...the...you _know_, and tell us why you want to come. Want-ed."

He frowned and looked down at his papers. Ziva seemed to be declining. Her speech was even more stilted. A dark half-moon was blooming under each eye. He cleared his throat. "You are entitled to certain funds now. I am here to ensure you get them."

"I do not want it," she snapped.

"It's not mine; it's _yours_. It's money set aside for family and _you_ are family."

She ducked and rubbed her eyes with her fists. There was something sweet in the gesture, childlike, though her words were sharp as knives. "Was I family when you abandoned me, Papa?"

"I was protecting you, Ziva."

"Is that what you've told yourself?"

Eli grew angry. "Would you rather I'd taken you back to Israel? Allowed you to spend the rest of your life in an assisted living facility, hidden away from the world because I do not know whom to trust with your safety? Would you rather that, Ziva? Would you rather spend your days alone instead of here, in your home, with your fiancé and your..." _Father_, he'd almost said. He blew out a breath and looked down at the envelope in his hands. His anger cooled. "I did the best I could, Ziva. I know you are angry. I know _why_ you are angry, but I hope someday you can understand why I made the choices I made."

She snorted and opened her mouth but Gibbs stopped her with a raised hand. He was clearly enjoying Eli's groveling. "Move on."

He opened the envelope and laid out four forms. "This is access to two different bank accounts in Ziva's name—one in the US and one in Switzerland. They each contain liquid assets now that can either be reinvested or turned into cash. It's her choice. Or we can consolidate and have all the funds wired here."

"Wired here," Ziva said firmly. "If it is mine then I want it here."

"It's yours," he said mildly. "And I understand. I can have it done by tomorrow morning if you can sign here."

Ziva spun the form toward her but her eyes flickered and she swallowed convulsively. Her head lolled forward. Her fingers twitched. Eli brushed his hand over her arm. "Ziva?"

Her lashes fluttered. Tony put his hand on her shoulder. "She's alright. It just takes a minute." He cupped her cheek with his hand. "Well, most of the time, anyway."

Eli was aghast. "What?"

"Seizure," Gibbs said calmly. "Petit mal. She has epilepsy."

"Epilepsy?" he sputtered. "Shouldn't we take her to the hospital?"

"She's fine."

And she was. Ziva was coming around, blinking, brows knit in confusion. Eli reached out and tentatively smoothed some flyaway curls back from her face. She let him.

Tony put his arm around her shoulder. "Alright, sweet cheeks?"

She nodded mutely and coughed again. "Where I should...sign?"

Eli slid the form closer and pointed to the X at the bottom of the page. "Here." There's a copy for each of us. Are you sure you're ok?"

"I am getting tired. You will have to go soon." She fell silent as she made her signature. Slow. Deliberate. There was nothing of the speed and recklessness he'd known before.

"Do you have these events often?"

"Events?"

"Seizures." The word was foreign on his tongue. He almost stuttered.

"Yes," she said with resignation. "I have brain damage. They happen. I take medication but it does not stop all of them."

"Sounds disruptive."

She shoved the papers back at him. "No more than being abandoned by my father."

He took the blow as gracefully as he could and passed the forms to Tony. Ziva had another seizure—one more violent than the last. Her hands clenched on the tabletop and she grunted softly. Eli couldn't bear to watch but couldn't tear his eyes away. "Are they painful?" he asked softly.

Gibbs shrugged and took Ziva's hand. "Can't imagine they feel good."

It took her longer to regain consciousness the second time around. Tony rubbed her back in circles and smiled when she blinked at him. "Need a rest?" he asked, face close to hers.

Ziva nodded and looked disparagingly at Eli. "I normally rest in the afternoon, but I could not today."

He bit back an apology, fearing he'd invoke her ire again. "I understand. Are days hard for you?"

"Some," she admitted. She backed up and her chin lifted. "I am going to lie down for an hour and then I will prepare dinner. You may stay if you like, or not. It is your choice. I am making chicken." With that she whirled away from him, Tony in tow.

"She sleeps," Eli mused. "She sleeps in the day like a child."

Gibbs crossed his arms. "Yeah."

"Epilepsy. Paralysis. So many needs. Is it difficult to care for her?"

"She does most of it herself."

"But she needs help."

"Yeah."

"And you help her."

"Me, Tony, Abby, McGee."

"You are here with her every day, caring for her, ensuring her safety."

Gibbs' eyes were ice. He lowered his voice. "It's a father's job to protect his daughter."

Eli's breath left him and he gaped, wounded. "Why do you think I trained her to be what she was?"

"A killer? Because you were willing to sacrifice her for your cause."

"Israel's neighbors hate her, Gibbs. I could not let my children..."

"Couldn't let your children go off on suicide missions? Couldn't let them be taken captive by Jihadi terrorists in Somalia?" He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. "You gave her to me like an unwanted puppy. Don't you dare try to convince me that you love her."

Eli rose. "Perhaps I should go."

"Can't finish a mission once you sabotage it."

"I can tell where I am not wanted."

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself. She asked you to stay for dinner." He stood up and pushed in his chair. "I got work to do. Clicker's on the table, newspaper's on the ottoman. Ziver will be up in a while."

He disappeared down the basement stairs. Eli paced the rooms, beginning in the beautiful, spacious kitchen and working outward in concentric circles. He ran his hands over the island, over the coffee table, over the television remote and _Washington Post_. Over dozens of framed photos, the curtains, the media stand, the painting hung over the sofa. Everything was well-made. Expensive. Ziva was spending her money well.

A trunk was positioned under the bay window. He lifted the lid. Inside were spare blankets and some old photo albums with Tony's name and the year in faded black ink. There was another book, too. Spiral bound, flimsy, obviously handmade. He teased it out of the mire, careful not to snag a handmade afghan, and held it before him. He squinted, needing his glasses.

The cover was a clear plastic report cover. Beneath was a photo of Ziva at a table, surrounded by some people he recognized and others he didn't. It was obviously a holiday or Shabbat; two small boys wore Bukharan _kippot_. One smiled at the camera from Ziva's lap. Everyone looked happy and well-fed.

He turned the page and found pictures as he'd seen her in the days after her accident—strapped down, unconscious, ghostly pale—and pictures that chronicled all the minute improvements she made. Pictures of Ziva sitting up, eating, sifting colorful cards with a woman who was obviously a therapist, standing with the help of a complicated contraption. She smiled bravely in most of them.

But others dragged at his conscience. He turned the page and found Ziva glowering at the photographer from her hospital bed. Her dark eyes were liquid and she had puffy, tear-stained cheeks. Her hands were splinted and stiff on the quilt. In another she was crying and clutching Tony's hand while a nurse tended a sore on her back. A _bedsore_. Eli couldn't bring himself to count the hours she must've laid there, in pain, while nurses poked and prodded. Or perhaps she was alone, languishing, while they chatted and played cards.

The photo on the facing page was even more disquieting. Gibbs sat on the edge of the bed, cradling Ziva like a child. She had her face buried in his shirt. The picture was a little blurry but the subject was clear: a fatigued father. A gravely ill child.

"A friend of ours put that together," Tony said, startling him. "We need to keep track of her progress in case she ever wants to apply to one of those boot-camp rehab programs in California or Georgia. We have a highlight video, too, like a football draft pick. Wanna see?"

"No, thank you," Eli said softly.

Tony flopped down on the sofa and kicked his boots up on the coffee table. "Suit yourself. Put that back when you're done. Ziva hates that thing. Refuses to have it lying around. And nice snooping, by the way. Glad to know you haven't lost your touch. It's our fault, though—we shouldn't have left you alone. You like football?"

"Real football," he answered, a bit confused. "Soccer, you call it."

Tony flipped on a match. Feijenoord was about to lose to PSV. "I don't hate you," he said calmly. He turned and pinned Eli was a wide, green stare. "I think you're corrupt. I'm wondering why the hell you're here and what you want and what kind of tricks are up your raw silk sleeves. I think you are a _seriously_ shitty father. I think you are pathetic. I can't trust you, but I don't hate you." He turned back to the television in time to see a defender get pummeled by a cherry-picking striker. "And I kinda pity you, too, because Ziva and I have this great life and you can't be a part of it."

"She hates me," he mourned.

"She's pissed," Tony scoffed. "Would she invite you for dinner if she hated you?"

"To poison me."

He paused, mouth open. "Yeah, but she probably won't. She's a civilian and your lunk-ass corpse would be hard to explain."

"Gibbs would help her hide my body."

Tony took a swig of cold coffee. "Now _he_ might hate you, but I doubt he'd let her get away with that. And did you see the muscle he's been building up since he's been home with her?" He whistled. "I won't be picking a fistfight with him any time soon."

"He has to lift her?"

"Sometimes. She can't get out of her chair if she's tired. Thing's got a bucket seat like a racecar."

"Did you have to put her in bed just now?"

"Yeah. Not a big deal. She's light."

"Rivka was petite. I did not notice before today that Ziva inherited her size rather than mine."

"Zi can't keep weight on. Pituitary problems."

Eli felt sick. "One blow to the head caused so many conditions?"

Tony turned, slowly, and glared at him. "Two blows, actually—one to her neck, which broke two vertebrae, and one to the back of her head, which caused a traumatic brain injury. But there were other injuries before that and they did _all kinds of _damage, Eli. _All _kinds. But thanks to some stupid, petty grudge—_your _stupid, petty grudge—she's a C7 quadriplegic and has Broca's aphasia, post-traumatic epilepsy, hypopituitarism, sensory processing disorder, and now pneumonia but she's getting over it. She has ten days left on the antibiotics."

"All of these problems, Tony, and you will marry her?"

The glare intensified. "Ziva is _Ziva, _not a diagnosis."

Eli nodded, thinking. "Will you have children?"

"Been talking about it."

"Can she-?"

"Not your business."

He sat back. "Would she let me see the children?"

"You are full of inappropriate questions. Ask her."

"Ask me what?" Ziva questioned. She was pink-cheeked from sleep but her eyes were clearer than before.

"Tony said the two of you are discussing marriage and children. Would you let me see them—my grandchildren?"

She cocked her head. One eyebrow rose. It was an expression he remembered from her childhood—one she wore when she was gauging her own stubbornness. "Maybe. And only if you play by my rules."

Tony dumped his cold coffee down the drain and put their cups in the dishwasher. "Chicken?" he asked her.

"In the refrigerator. Will you get the LeCreuset so I can start the Persian rice?"

The cast iron French oven clanked on the stove. She smiled softly at him. "Thank you, Tony."

He kissed her cheek and pointed at the cut-up bird. "Welcome. What do I do with this?"

"Rub with olive oil, garlic, and lemon."

Eli approached the other side of the granite island and put his hands down. "Are you making your mother's recipe?"

"No," she replied tartly. "I do not like lamb. I use chicken."

"You ate it before."

"I did not have a choice. Now either help Tony or leave the room. We are working." She returned to measuring rice—measuring without spilling a single grain—and added salt and sprigs of saffron to the pot. "Lid please, Tony."

He looked up from handfuls of fat and skin. "Messy hands, Zi."

She rolled her eyes. "Papa, can you put the lid on the pan, please? The cast iron is heavy. I am afraid I will drop it."

He was elated she asked and lowered the lid with pomp and circumstance. Ziva did not crack a smile. "Thank you. Please set the table. Dishes are kept in the end cabinet under the counter. Silverware above."

Eli set the table slowly, lining up the flatware and napkins the way he'd been taught by his mother's housekeeper. She loved him, called him _ELL-ee_ rather than _EE-lie_, as was her custom, and lavished him with treats and affection. He'd wanted her approval the way he wanted Ziva's now.

"Is this _playing by your rules_?" he asked, stepping back.

She eyed the table over her pot of rice. "Yes," she said simply.

He stepped close to her and put his hand gingerly on her back. She let him but did not look up. "Ziva?"

"What?"

"I love you. I promise, my daughter, I love you."

She looked up with big, wet, brown eyes. "I know," she replied. "But you have a terrible way of showing it."

. . . .

Eli's visit was not without fallout; Ziva's sobs woke Tony that night. Or maybe it was morning—he was too tired and worried to look at the clock. He dragged her against his chest and held her tightly, both arms around her in a bear hug. She tucked her hands under her chin and wet his t-shirt with tears.

Tony shushed her, stroked her back, her hair, her arms. Her skin was warm where it touched his and he wished a wet cloth would appear so he could cool her down. "Hey," he whispered, propping his cheek on her head. "I'm sorry."

Ziva cried harder. Her trembling increased. He tightened his grip. "I know you wanted to see him. It sucks that it hurts like this. Can I do anything to help?"

She shook her head and choked on a sob. A deep breath ended in coughing. Tony winced; her chest and throat sounded rough, but she closed her eyes and concentrated. It worked a little—her breathing slowed.

"Promise me," she begged, voice raw. She blinked and her wet lashes tickled him through his shirt. "Promise me, Tony."

"I promise," he repeated automatically. Whatever you need, baby."

"Promise me you will not abandon our children."

"I will not abandon anyone. Not our kids and not you." He stroked her cheek. It was hot beneath his thumb. "You ok?"

"I am tired. I need to sleep."

Tony brushed his thumb over her eyelids. "Then sleep. Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"I did not want to," Ziva mumbled. She sniffled. Her breath hitched. "I thought he would only make me angry, but he made me very sad. And I feel guilty because I still love him and I do not want to."

"It's ok to love him. Or hate him. Or resent him, or wish him bad Pan-Asian cuisine. I like how you stood up for yourself today. I was proud."

"Proud?"

"Very."

"I was so angry," she admitted softly. "I wanted to hurt him."

"You nailed him in the head with a...what was that thing?"

"I do not know. It was my first project. Perhaps it is better as a missile."

He chuckled. She snorted and sniffled. "You feel crappy again?"

"Yes," she confessed. "I could not sleep because of my headache."

Tony sat up and brought her with him. "Then let's get you something for it.

"No," Ziva insisted. "No meds. I think I should go back to the doctor. Abba can take me in the morning."

"I'll take you," he said quickly.

"Work."

He scraped his phone off the nightstand and sent a quick text to McGee despite the clock flashing 3:54am. He'd get it when he woke up. Or it would wake him up. Didn't matter. "I'll take you," he said again. "I want to go with you. Let Gibbs stay home and build his boat." He lay back down and she curled against him again. He held her, dimly aware of how warm her skin was on his. "Fever," he announced.

"Yes," she sighed, frustrated. "I want this gone. I do not care if they keep me in the hospital. I only want to feel better and come home."

"Me, too. I don't like when you're sick."

"Me, either."

She hummed, drifting, and Tony joined her in the slow slide toward sleep. He kissed her brow and whispered _laila tov_ just to make her hum again.

. . . .

Dr. Monroe wrote a scrip for a home nebulizer—Ziva would need daily treatments for a while—and told them to be patient. More fluids, more rest, less stress. Tony smiled when she didn't even recommend a set of chest x-rays and sent them on their way.

"Go home. _Quickly_ home," she urged. "The cold air is bad for her. No coffee, no breakfast, just home and into bed. I can see you're tired, Ziva—take the time you need. I'll see you in a month for our regularly scheduled programming." She gave her a quick hug and left.

Ziva pouted. "I wanted a tea from our coffee shop. The one with the nice barista."

"No whining," Tony commanded. "You just cashed in your last 'get-out-of-jail-free card'."

She scowled at him and boosted herself into the passenger seat, pausing to cough before spinning her chair to dismantle it. "Jail for throwing bad pottery at my father?"

"It means she let you go, Zi."

"Oh."

She seemed to ponder that as he drove, but jumped when the pulled into the drive. "You think she wanted to keep me?"

He gave her his most charming smile. "I want to keep you," he said lowly.

He expected a smirk and rolled eyes, but her brows knit further and she looked away. "You promised."

"And I meant it. C'mon, let's go inside. This cold air is bad for my girl."

"Abba?" she called, swinging the door open. "We are back. I need a nebulizer. I will need it for a while but—oh. What is? Abba?" She was paused at the end of the hallway, where Gibbs had finally put up the custom frames he'd been laboring over. Twenty-five photos had been matted, framed, and artfully arranged on the wall. They spanned Ziva's life from birth to their holiday party.

The more recent photos included a particularly sweet one of Ziva with Abby, and another of Ziva sandwiched on the sofa between Tony and Gibbs. They were laughing in the photo, laughing at a sly joke she'd cracked, and each one had a protective arm around her.

Ziva brushed her fingers over it. "I like this one."

Gibbs stood at the top of the basement steps. Neither of them heard him come up. "Me, too," he said quietly. "You like 'em?"

She scanned all the photos, pausing at one of her with her mother on the beach in Eilat. "Yes," she sighed, blinking. "_Ima_."

Tony said lightly. "You're beautiful like her."

She blushed and wiped her eyes. "Thank you." She lingered over the last frames; they were blank behind the glass. "Um, why are some empty?"

Gibbs gave her a smirk. "Because the story ain't told yet." He kissed her temple and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Yesterday was rough."

"Yes," she agreed heavily.

"Heard you get upset last night."

She nodded. "Tony called you?"

"Heard you crying through the ducts."

She ducked her head and blushed deeper. "I did not know you stayed."

He crouched before her. "You think I'm going to walk out on my kid when she's that low?"

"No," she said, voice small. "But Tony was here."

"I know. I was running backup. After the way you trashed that office I was worried he'd need it."

She smiled and coughed. "I was so angry."

"I know."

Tony got closer, protective. Ziva leaned into him. "I was awake for a lot of the night," she said quietly. "I did a lot of thinking. Can we talk?"

Gibbs started the coffeepot. Tony and Ziva went to the table, where she pulled a piece of paper from her under-seat storage net and smoothed the wrinkles out of it. "I made a list," she said. "I did not want to forget anything."

"A list of movies we're supposed to watch while you rest up?" Gibbs' palm was a comfort on the back of Tony's head. "Guess not," he wheedled, rubbing.

"Things I want to do," she informed them seriously. "Starting with this—I want to quit rehab."

They were both on their feet in a flash, shocked. "You can't!" Tony carped. He wrung his hands, anxious. "You can't quit! You're doing so well!"

Gibbs joined him in cajoling. "You're not ready, Ziver."

"Yes, I am," she maintained. "I can do more work later, but for now I can do what I can do. Even Devorah said I have plateaued. Petra, too. I will only go once a week now."

Tony sat, puzzled. "You've already planned this out?"

"With Devorah and Cora and Petra and Dr. Hess. Why do you think Dr. Monroe wants to see me in a month?"

"You scheduled your own appointments?" Gibbs asked, frowning.

"Yes, I do. I have also decided to start volunteering a little bit." She cleared her throat. "There is an organization for disabled IDF veterans here in the US. They're headquartered in New York City, but Adi works at their local office in Silver Spring. She thinks I might be a good fit. It will only be a few hours per week, but I think it will be good for me. Dr. Hess says it is time to reintegrate because..." she trailed off and blinked at both of them. Her eyes were enormous in her pale face. "Because I want to get married and start a family and _that_ is a giant shove back into the Real World. Or so she said, anyway."

Tony went perfectly still, torn between bursting into tears of happiness and jumping out of his chair. His limbed warmed and went numb. His face grew hot. "You want to get married soon?" he begged. "Like _soon_-soon?"

"In May," she said quietly. "I found a few venues with free weekends. They are small—I do not want a crowd—but they are all accessible and..." she blushed. "And beautiful."

"Ok. We can take scouting trips whenever you're ready."

"And," she continued, looking pointedly at Gibbs, "I want to start a family. I want to be a mother. I will need help, Abba. I can hire a nanny with some of the money Papa gave me—there is plenty of it—but I may need you more. Is that ok?"

"We'll work it out," he said, putting his hand over hers. "It's not an easy job."

She gave him a tiny smile. "Are you lecturing me?"

He touched their foreheads together. "What kind of dad would I be if I didn't?"

Tony puffed his chest. "_I'm_ gonna be a dad." Ziva smiled at him. His heart fluttered. "I'm gonna be a dad."

"And a husband," she prodded softly.

He laughed. "Hell yeah I am." He jumped up from his chair and caught it before it could tip. "I am going to be a husband and a father. We are going to take weekend trips to Great Falls and Rocky Gap, we'll go to Philly and do the whole Dead White Guy thing, we'll go to New York for shows, maybe see my dad for a dinner that's two hours late and totally overpriced, and we'll take the kids to FAO Schwartz and the Central Park Zoo." He came around behind Gibbs and Ziva and put his arms around them. "And we'll go sledding at Rock Creek Park and come home to hot cocoas and roast beef dinners and movie nights. Right?" He said giddily. "Right?!"

"Right, Tony," Ziva agreed. "You know how I want to do this?"

He kissed her temple. Her flyaway curls ticked his nose. "Want to start once we're married?"

She kissed him on the mouth. "Yes."

Gibbs slid out of Tony's grasp. "You two can keep the baby-making in the bedroom."

"We are going to adopt," she informed him quietly. "I cannot get pregnant and most infertility treatments do not seem like a good idea for me." She turned back to Tony. "But we can see a doctor if you really want a biological child."

He scoffed. "Greatness like mine isn't about biology. Any child I raise will be brilliant, beautiful, film-savvy, and socially adept. The Most Interesting Child in the World. The _Indiana Jones_ of playgroup. _Cool Hand Luke _of the fourth grade." He mugged for her, propping his cheek on his fist.

"Enough, Casanova," Gibbs groused, but he was smiling.

Ziva unlocked the brakes and pushed away from the table. "I am getting tired. Dr. Monroe said I was to rest, so I am going to lie in bed and read."

"I'll help you get comfortable," Tony said urgently and added lowly, "make sure you don't need mouth-to-mouth."

She giggled deliciously. "You might need to rest, too."

Gibbs didn't turn from perusing he fridge. "You know I can hear a lot through those ducts."

Tony sucked in a breath. Ziva blushed. They looked at each other quizzically and made a beeline for the bedroom, where Tony slammed the door and they bust into embarrassed laughter.

Ziva slid into bed and pulled off her boots. Tony snuggled up next to her, still chuckling. "Good thing he doesn't stay that often."

She pinched him. "You need to say when he is here. I do not always know."

"I will, I will," he complained, but happily. His heart was full but light. He was going to be a husband and father. He would be good at it, he thought proudly. He would do it right.

She traced the stripes on his shirt. "You still promise, right?"

Tony laced his right hand with her left. "'Bout time I had that ring resized."

She smiled and cuddled in tight. "Next week?"

He kissed her. "Promise."


	36. For the Summer

**Ladies and gentlemen, this has been one long, crazy ride and I think it's time to get off. I can't tell you how many of you I need to thank, to lay praises on, to hug and kiss and write gushing letters for. I am continuously stunned by the reviews, the favorites, the follows and alerts. It's amazing. I am so lucky. Thank you and thank you and thank you.**

**There will be follow-up, but this is it, for now. Kisses, The Mecha.**

**. . . .**

Can_ I come home for the summer?_

_I could slow down for a little while._

_Get back to lovin each other._

_Leave all those long and lonesome miles behind._

_-Ray LaMontagne, "For the Summer."_

Tony wouldn't remember that they got married on a blue-sky day in June. He wouldn't remember the small venue overlooking Belmont Bay. He wouldn't remember the standing-room-only crowd or the sailboats bobbing on their mooring balls or the skylight or who held up the chuppah. He would remember only _her_. Ziva. Her simple strapless off-white dress, the flowers in her hair, the way she rolled slowly down the aisle with Gibbs' hand on her shoulder. He would remember the glow of happiness on her beautiful face and the way his heart thundered and how he'd fidgeted in his new grey suit.

Dorneget shoved a chair under him. Rabbi Ellen greeted the crowd with gentle, welcoming remarks. Tony didn't hear them.

"Drawing flies, DiNozzo," Gibbs muttered, and he shut his gaping trap.

Ziva giggled softly and took his hand. "This is it."

"Yeah," he agreed, grinning. He felt a little punch-drunk. _Love_-drunk.

There was a small table under the chuppah with them. Rabbi Ellen smiled and handed each of them a pen. "I'm going to have Tony and Ziva sign their _ketubah_ now," she said to the audience. "This is the contract that binds them in matrimony and outlines their responsibility to one another. It will be read aloud after the exchanging of rings and blessing over wine."

Tony scribbled his name before his fingers could go numb from nerves. Ziva took time to write her name in both English and Hebrew.

The rabbi smiled. "Eli, can you pour a cup of wine for me?"

"Of course," he stammered, nervous, and popped the cork on a bottle of kosher red.

The silver Kiddush cup was a David family heirloom. The rabbi held it aloft. "With this _Kiddush_ I am sanctifying not just the wine, but the union and the occasion."

She made the blessing in Hebrew and passed the cup to Tony, who sipped and held it out to Ziva. She swallowed delicately and gave a tiny smile. The cup was passed around. Everyone drank—Eli and Senior, Tim, Abby, and Gibbs, and Dorneget drained it.

"A good nose on this," he said seriously.

The audience tittered. There was a sniffle and the prayer shawl dipped above them—Abby was crying, and she'd nearly dropped the chuppah pole to cover her face. Gibbs put his hand over hers and gave her his handkerchief. Abby giggled through her tears. The crowd tittered a second time.

The rabbi held the two plain gold bands on a scrap of satin. "Jewish law calls for the groom to give the bride something of significant value in order to confirm the act of matrimony. To honor the _halacha, _I am going to ask Tony to place the ring on Ziva's finger first."

Tony's hands shook but Ziva's were steady. He slid the ring onto her right index finger and she made a tight fist, symbolizing that she'd accepted.

"Success!" the rabbi cawed, throwing her fist in the air. "Ziva accepts Tony's gift. Now she will place her own ring on his finger."

Tony exhaled unsteadily as she threaded his left ring finger through the simple gold band. Almost done.

Rabbi Ellen smiled. "Anthony Senior," she said warmly. "Would you read the _ketubah_ in English, please?"

He held up the parchment. Formal calligraphy atop an abstract watercolor in reds and purples. "On the eighth day of the month of the Tamuz of the Hebrew year 5773, Anthony agrees to work to provide his beautiful wife, Ziva, the food, clothing, shelter, and honor she deserves. He agrees to pay her two hundred silver _zuzim_ should he fail to clothe, feed, shelter, or provide her adequate marital relations."

Tim coughed and went red. Abby shushed him and dabbed her eyes again.

"The couple is joined in matrimony as friends, lovers, and confidantes," Senior continued. "On the eighth day of the month of Tamuz in the Hebrew year 5773."

"Thank you," the rabbi said graciously. "_Yashar koach_, Anthony Senior. "Eli, would you be so kind as to read the _ketubah_ in Hebrew, please?"

Eli accepted it from Senior and cleared his throat. He cast a glance at Ziva. She nodded and laced her fingers with Tony's.

Eli chanted in monotone for a moment, but relaxed and began to sing. He had a beautiful, melodic voice. It filled the room, the day, the crevices in Tony's heart. He squeezed Ziva's hand and swallowed back tears. She squeezed back and wiped her eyes. The _ketubah_ was deliberately brief—a symbol more than a legal contract—so his song was short. There was silence until the rabbi took the document, signed her name, and rolled it into a tube. Gibbs tied it with a ribbon. She handed it to Tony.

"Thus concludes the ceremony. Tony, kiss your wife."

All the anxiety left him in a rush and he heaved forward to press his lips to hers. His hands found her sides, then her back, then her face as he kissed and kissed her. Relief. Joy. Love. All of it and all at once.

The rabbi lead the crowd, clapping and singing _siman tov u'mazal tov_ as Tony and Ziva went up the aisle and out of the hall. Everyone streamed out after them, still singing and clapping. Tony stuck close to Ziva, sensing she was made a little nervous by all the commotion.

But she held her own through the smorgasbord and receiving line. Guests noshed on canapés and lavished _mazal tovs_ and blessings on the newlyweds while the staff changed over the room from ceremonial space to eating-and-dancing space. Eli delegated, marching around with his hands behind his back, one eye always finding Ziva amid the crowd. He shook Tony's hand when all twelve round tables had been rolled out of storage.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "I did not expect to be included in this jubilant event."

Tony squeezed a little harder than necessary. "We wouldn't exclude you," he said, and meant it. Eli and Ziva had been making amends, speaking via video chat once a week and exchanging emails. He'd volunteered the family heirlooms for the ceremony. Now he handed Tony two small envelopes.

"I know you want children," he said lowly. "This is to help you get started."

Tony's chest constricted. "Eli, you've already given us—"

"I know," he interrupted. "I have saved and saved and now I am old and my family is gone. What will I do with it—take it with me to my grave? _Feh_." He waved a hand. "Let it go to you and to my grandchildren. Let it go to people who will not build lives like mine."

He pocketed the envelopes before Ziva could see. "What are you living on?"

"I am fine," Eli said, patting Tony's shoulder. "I am fine." He went to Ziva then, putting his arm around her shoulders and kissing both of her cheeks. She leaned into him but only for a moment—Abby was offering a toast point hor d'oeuvre.

Gibbs sidled up next to him. "Doin' alright, DiNozzo?"

He gazed and gazed at his wife—his _wife_—as she worked the crowd. She'd gone to a four-week rehab boot camp in Atlanta before the wedding. The separation had been difficult, but worthwhile. Her naps were shorter, their evenings longer, and she was even beginning to experiment with gait-training again. She looked strong and beautiful as Adi kissed her cheek and Tal climbed into her lap.

"I'm fine," he finally murmured.

"Then get your girl and get in there," he said, motioning with his head. The guests were funneling in to the room again, hungry and ready to dance a _hora_ with the bride and groom.

"Yeah, Boss," he said vacantly.

Ziva slid her hand into his. She was smiling and rosy-cheeked. "I spoke to Rabbi Ellen. We need to spend five minutes alone in _yichud_ before we greet the crowd. Come with me?"

"Yes," he sighed.

She took him to a small conference room and locked the door behind them before pawing her dress aside and sliding an envelope from her under-seat pocket. "Here," she said, pushing it at him. "This is my gift to you."

Inside were two airline tickets to St. Croix and a confirmation slip for a fancy resort. A printed email from Vance granted him time off. He felt himself go hot and he grinned again, stupid with happiness. "Yes!" he cheered. "_Blue Lagoon_. Where's my loincloth?"

"In your suitcase," she retorted, but frowned and put her index finger to her chin. "At least I _hope_ Abba packed it." He went red and she laughed. "I would never ask him to do that, Tony. I packed your bag. It is waiting at home. We leave tomorrow morning. Abba will take us to the airport."

He opened the resort brochure and damned near salivated at the white sand beaches and clear blue water. He _badly_ needed a vacation. He badly wanted one with Ziva. "Zi," he sighed, close to tears again. "Thank you." He held out his hands. "I didn't know about this or I would've gotten you something. I was just so wrapped up with you being in Atlanta for six weeks, and then this shindig, and scheduling interviews for our home study..."

She took his hand and tugged him down for a kiss. "You _are_ my gift, Tony, and one day we will have children and _they_ will be gifts, too."

He kissed her again. "You sure you can wait?"

She gave him a knowing look. "I am very patient."

Loud rapping on the door startled them. "Hey, lovebirds," Rabbi Ellen called. "It's time to make your grand entrance."

Ziva laughed and put her forehead on Tony's. "We are married."

"We are."

"You promise?"

He wanted to float away with her in his arms. "Yeah," he sighed, brow still pressed to hers. "I promise."

. . . .

Tony clicked the green button and the burbling dialing noises began. One ring, two, and then a _blorp_ on the third and the sound of clicking before Rochelle, the Florida state social worker, appeared on the screen. She wore beautiful dark red lipstick. Ziva wrung her hands. She hadn't bothered with makeup—the day was too hot. "Hello," she greeted carefully.

Tony bumped her shoulder and smiled. "Hi," he burst. "How's it going in the Sunshine State?"

"It's great. I have one _very_ excited little girl here to speak to you. Are you ready?"

Anxiety leapt in Ziva's heart. "Is there anything we should know first?"

Rochelle shrugged. "You should know that she wants to be your kid. She fell asleep last night with your photo in her hand. She also thinks she's grown now that she'll be flying independently."

Ziva shook her head, rueful and disgusted. She wanted to fly down to Miami to pick up her daughter, but Gibbs and Dr. Monroe put the kybosh to air travel after their disastrous trip home from St. Croix, which had been complete with a cascade of seizures so severe she landed back on the neuro floor for a forty-eight hour watch. Liana would have to fly as an unaccompanied minor. Failure nagged at Ziva. "I am terribly sorry about that," she said lowly. "We did not—"

Rochelle waved her hand. "Stop. It's fine. She has a guardian and a flight attendant assigned to her, and Li is one savvy kid. You have not earned any black marks on your record."

Ziva nodded and opened her mouth, but Tony interrupted. "Can we talk to her now?"

She nodded and beckoned to someone just outside the frame. There was movement, soft, anxious voices, and then Liana moved behind the desk and sat. She was a tiny thing—a shadow—but her eyes were bright, clear hazel and her hair had been combed and clipped back. _Oh, _Ziva thought. _There you are. _Relief closed in on her. Recognition. "Hi, baby," she cooed, but her throat closed around _you are so beautiful_ or _how are you _or _I love you_ or _I cannot wait any more for you_.

Tony took the right one and traced the arc of her wrist with his index finger. "Hey, sweetheart," he croaked. He was emotional, too. Ziva found comfort in that. "How ya doing?"

Liana blinked and opened her mouth, but hesitated and closed it again. They could hear her breath catch. "I want to come to you," she finally said. She reached into a zip-top plastic bag and pulled out the photo book they'd sent. She thumbed through it. "I like the pictures and I want...I want to come to you."

She swallowed and tensed, closed to tears, and Ziva felt her whole body reach. "You will see us very soon, Liana. Did you see the photo of your room?"

"Yes. I liked it."

"Would you like anything special for in there?"

"No, thank you."

Ziva ached to touch her. Did Liana still have smooth, babyish skin? Was her hair silky, or did it snarl easily and need frequent conditioning and combing? She would find out tomorrow. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. But she'd waited this long, hadn't she? What was one more day?

Tony's arm snaked around the back of her chair. He stroked her shoulders in long, even strokes. She relaxed; he was so steady when she was off her bearings. "Did you get the other things we sent?" he asked. "We thought those were things you might like to do on the plane."

"Yes," she said again. A small smiled played across her sweet face. "I liked the books you picked out. And the art supplies. I like to draw, but Louis ate my crayons."

"Bummer," Tony commiserated.

She sighed ruefully. "He's only a baby. I can't get mad."

"You have new crayons," Ziva said gently. "And we have more for when you get here. I like to draw, too. Do you think we can do that at the big desk in your room?"

Liana nodded, chin creased, eyes big in her tiny, pixie-ish face. "I want to do things together."

"Me, too," Ziva soothed. "And we will. I know it is hard to wait. I am impatient, too."

"Tomorrow," she echoed.

"Yes, tomorrow." Ziva hesitated and looked at Tony. "I know this may be hard to...hear, especially right now, but we love you, Liana. We love you very much. Can you understand?"

Her lower lip came out and she nodded. "Yeah."

"Remember that today when you feel impatient."

Liana looked away. Rochelle's arm appeared in the frame and she looked back at the screen, eyes sad. "I have to go," she said tearfully.

"We will see you tomorrow, baby," Ziva cooed, heartbroken already. "I love you."

"Me, too," Tony chimed in.

Liana stood up from her chair, glanced around the room, and blew four quick kisses at the webcam. Ziva and Tony waved and the call ended with another _blorp_.

Tony looked at her wide-eyed and grinning. "Did you see her?" he wondered aloud. "Did you see how perfect she is?"

She didn't bother to swallow her tears. "I saw," she echoed, and wiped her cheeks. He kissed her. She kissed back. "Can you take me to the Navy Yard?"

He huffed. "Killing the romance, Zi."

She slid Liana's referral from the table to her lap. "I want to ask Ducky about her issues. I want to know what we can do to help her."

He nodded and rose. "You want to go now?"

She nodded and adjusted her cotton sundress. She felt better in the warm weather. Hopeful. She would be a mother, and mothers wore cotton sundresses and sandals and sunglasses. Mothers watched their children play in the park. Mothers made sure their children's needs were met, and that meant a trip to Ducky for advice. "Yes," she said simply. "Now."

. . . .

She hummed in response to the familiar _bing_ of the elevator. Her heart slowed it's noisy pumping and she bumped over the gap. Ducky kissed her cheeks. Jimmy grinned and shook Tony's hand.

"Congrats, Dad," he gushed.

Tony's bravado failed to appear. "Thanks," he muttered humbly, smiling.

Ducky took the file folder Ziva held out and opened it to the first page. Liana's photo was there, along with her kindergarten report card and last medical evaluation. "What a beautiful girl," he mused, skimming the reports. "And so bright. I can assume she's had an IQ test?"

She nodded. "Yes, her scores are all high."

He nodded and pointed at her medical records. "Her intelligence quotient matches her school performance. There is obvious evidence of past neglect and abuse, but not within the last twelve months. When did she come into care?"

"A year ago."

He hummed, thinking. "There are no indication of developmental delays or disabilities, but I am certain that malnutrition and physical neglect will leave a permanent thumbprint on her growth."

Her hackles rose. "What does _that_ mean?"

"She is a _peanut_, Ziva. Six years old and thirty-five pounds? I would fatten her like a Christmas goose. Maybe you ought to prepare your famous matzo balls with chicken schmaltz rather than olive oil. I might also recommend a quality daily multivitamin."

Her ire cooled. "We have some at home. Tony has been helping himself to them. He says they taste like candy."

"The cartoon ones?" Jimmy asked. "I love those things. I still take them for my daily dose of B and C vitamins."

"Imagine my surprise, Mr. Palmer. Liana was on anti-anxiety medication for a while. She may need to go on it again as she transition from foster care to adoptive home. Do you have a therapist lined up for her?"

Ziva raised her chin. "Yes. We have already chosen a pediatrician and mental healthcare providers for her."

"Good. Then I suppose I shall offer you a _mazel tov_ on the arrival of your beautiful daughter. When does she arrive?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"You are terrified."

"Yes."

"I'm not," Tony interrupted.

A tiny spark of irritation leapt in Ziva. It felt good. "Of course you aren't," she simpered. "Our application and home study would have been approved immediately if I was able-bodied. Now we will have an active child in our home and I worry that...that I will not be enough for her. That I will fail as her mother because I am disabled. Did you _see_ her, Tony? You said it yourself—_she is perfect_."

Tony looked at his shoes. Shame colored his cheeks. "We didn't tell her, Zi."

Time slowed and stopped. Ziva's heart dropped into her stomach. She struggled to draw air. Not once had the time seemed right for her to say, _I cannot walk, Liana, I use a wheelchair_. A tiny noise slipped past her lips and she stiffened. Anger replaced her panic. She clung feebly to her self-control. Her voice was tight when she spoke again. "Already I have failed."

"It is in your home study document, certainly," Ducky said. "And couldn't she see your chair during your video chat?"

"And your photo book, right? If not, I'm sure the social worker has already told her," Palmer said buoyantly. "I mean, she set you guys up—isn't it her job?"

"No," Ziva snapped, furious. "It was mine and I did not do it. Tony, we need to call Rochelle right away." She wrenched her handrims and spun toward the elevator.

He caught up in two strides. "I'm sorry," he said tearfully. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad, I just forgot and—"

"It is fine," she said heavily. "But we need to go home. I will call her right away. I cannot believe that I would...how _careless_, Tony. How _selfish_. And yet the state of Maryland say I am qualified to parent."

She went ahead of him into the parking garage. He caught up again. "So we'll call Rochelle and have a chat—no big deal. And—" He trailed off while she transferred and broke down her chair. "—So what if it's a surprise? I saw the way she looked at us. Do you really think she'll care that you use a cool set of wheels to get around?"

She slammed the door. He started the engine and cranked the air conditioner. "What if I am not what she wants?" she asked rhetorically. She did not want the answer.

"What if you _are_?"

She scoffed, incredulous. "You cannot tell me a healthy, energetic six-year-old would choose a disabled mother, Tony."

"She's not any old six-year-old," he said softly. "She will be _ours."_

She took some deep breaths and put on her sunglasses. The day was bright. Things were blooming. Her anxiety quelled as they drove through the Navy Yard gates. "Maybe," she said quietly. "Maybe it will be ok."

"I got you, baby," Tony said happily. "How can it _not_ be?"

. . . .

Ziva wrung her hands and rocked on her rear axle while the plane emptied. Tony shifted beside her, holding his _Welcome Home, Liana _sign the two of them had lettered and die-cut with Abby's scrapbooking equipment. Would she like it? Would she like _them_, live and in-person? She worried more and more. There were several long minutes of no passengers in the jetway and then a flight attendant appeared in her navy blue uniform and heels. She was tugging a little girl by the hand. _Their_ little girl. Liana.

Ziva held her breath while she caught sight of them and hesitated. Perhaps Rochelle hadn't told her. Perhaps Ziva's wheelchair was a surprise. Was Liana going to turn around and get back on the plane? Would she beg the pilot to fly her back to Miami? She drew a deep breath and held it. _No,_ Ziva was prepared to shout. _I'm your ema. I love you_. _Please do not go._

Liana stared for a moment, eyes bright and blinking, then let go of the attendant's hand and took one step toward them. It was followed by another and another until she was moving at a steady clip across the worn terminal carpet. Her tiny leather moccasins made no noise. Ziva's breathing was loud, and then she stopped before her and Tony, hugging her backpack, cheeks flushed. "Hi," she stammered. "I..I'm Liana."

Ziva was overwhelmed by that same feeling she'd felt the day before. It was odd. Wild, even. Instinct. Mother's instinct. She lunged with her whole body and Liana came easily into her arms. Ziva's erratic pulse steadied and slowed. Recognition. This was her baby. _Oh, here you are_, she thought, and all the nagging fear and failure stopped it's relentless pounding in her head.

Liana was sturdier than she looked, more muscular, more confident, but yielded in Ziva's embrace like an infant. Her skin was dewy. Her hair was thick and soft. It tickled her arms. She stroked it and marveled, like Tony, at how _perfect_ she was.

"I am Ziva," she whispered in her tiny child's ear. Liana's warm weight was grounding, centering. She could stay there forever. "I waited a very, very long time for you."

. . . .

**FIN**.


End file.
